


Let's Not

by Rokikurama



Series: The University-Verse [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU-typical classism, Aggressive Politeness, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Image, Comedy of Errors, Dream Sex, Everyone Needs A Hug, Getting Together, I guess is what to call it, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, brief racist comment, intimacy negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-06-09 16:11:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rokikurama/pseuds/Rokikurama
Summary: Aziraphale is an Assistant Professor of Classics. Crowley is the Assistant Vice President of Student Services. Heaven vs. Hell has nothing on this. Also featuring: Graduate Student Anathema Device! University IT Professional(?!!!) Newton Pulsifer! College-age The Them!An AU that popped up in my brain and just wouldn't go away, so I'm sharing it with all of you. Also, I blatantly need to write out some academia feels. Tags to be updated as we go, rating pops up to E in chapter 7.In case it's a no-go for you, this is POC!Crowley/white!Aziraphale. Crowley's background is Indian (i.e. from India) and Aziraphale is white British. I fully respect folks not wanting to read that particular dynamic (thus the warning here). It's not something that gets fetishized (no raceplay here, essentially) but does pop up in the story at different points.





	1. Face in the Crowd

**Author's Note:**

> The university in question is in the US (mostly because that's the context I'm most familiar with), but Aziraphale is still, of course, English. I mean. Really. The Good Omens book is my favorite of all time, so I'm *thrilled* by all the new influx into the fandom. That said, my headcanon for Crowley was always as a person of color (like this incredible work https://www.pinterest.com/pin/529384131169249658/ and many others). As a disgruntled former Sherlock fan, I'm also allergic to descriptions of pure white necks under dark black suits, so there.
> 
> I'm trying a new thing where I actually finish the next chapter before I post the new one. Hopefully this will avoid writer's block (patiently waiting SpideyPool people, I'm so sorry) and my getting too caught up in a complicated plot with a billion moving pieces. ETA 8/10/2019: IT WORKED PEOPLE I FINISHED A THING

It was difficult to miss the only other constant face in the crowd at every single one of the student information fairs. Even if that face was sitting at a table marked with the sign of The Opposition. The day had dawned hot and muggy, the kind of summer weather that makes you wish autumn would hurry up and fall. Aziraphale was sweating profusely under his waistcoat—he had standards—and desperate for something else to think about. At precisely the wrong moment, the face in question turned and caught Aziraphale not-quite-staring-but-definitely-looking-in-the-general-area. Assistant Vice President Anthony J. Crowley, Student Services, smirked at Aziraphale, who quickly tried to pretend to organize the pamphlets on his table but mostly just knocked them onto the grass.

"You must have done something truly wicked to get stuck with eternal information fair duty. Slumming it with us Administration and Staff types all the way down from the hallowed halls of the Classics department," Anthony said. Aziraphale sniffed.

"What makes you think I didn't happily volunteer? Meeting the students, steering them towards the path of reflection and wisdom, it's important."

"It's also hot as balls and three in the afternoon on a Friday. Nobody's here of their own free will, least of all faculty."

Aziraphale glared. He inhaled and breathed out consciously, counting to four each time, to calm himself.

"How do you find yourself here, then?” he said, “Aren't you meant to be in a highly ...modern open plan office somewhere?" His suit certainly looked like it should be, Aziraphale thought sourly as he pointedly looked away. One of those designer absurdities that urged fabric to forget its essential nature as a soft, comfortable material and instead convince itself that it was one of the shinier minerals. Basalt, perhaps. Obsidian. That it echoed and emphasized his angular cheekbones, sharp under perfectly tanned carnelian brown skin, was unfair and also no doubt the point. Anthony chuckled and smirked again, in a way that suggested he knew Aziraphale was dodging the question.

"But if I was, they might expect me to actually do some work. Besides, I do like to get out and talk to them," he gestured at the students walking around the large grassy courtyard in chattering groups of four and five. Most freshmen clung to their roommates for survival through the first few weeks, though they were interspersed with the occasional imperious loners and couples already arm-in-arm. "Remind myself the spreadsheets relate to real life somehow."

"It is nice to see them so happy," Aziraphale said before he realized that he had not meant to continue the conversation.

"What, unlike when you see them in class?" Anthony said. Aziraphale glared.

"The fascination of what's difficult dries the sap of the veins. But only such will allow the tree to grow and flower forth in spring," he said, taking a prim sip of iced tea from his thermos. Anthony grinned like a cat who had spotted a geriatric mouse.

"Are you really allowed to bastardize Yeats, as a professor of classics? I'd think that was against the rules."

Aziraphale choked on his tea and started coughing, to the distress of a passing group of pre-meds who diligently applied their lack of knowledge to his person until Aziraphale recovered enough to tell them he was quite all right, thank you, thank you kindly, yes, good-bye, you should go catch up with your friends now.

Anthony's face wore an irritatingly self-satisfied smirk under his stupid reflective Valentino sunglasses. Aziraphale was saved from further humiliation by the miraculous appearance of four students to his table. Slightly grubby freshman looked down on him, with expressions ranging from curious to skeptical to imploring.

“Here it is!” the first boy said, more excited than Aziraphale had heard in quite some time and bringing a hopeful smile to his face, “Classics, like philosophy and literature and old stuff. I reckon that’s what universities are supposed to be about.”

“But Adam, I have to start in Accountancy right away,” the imploring boy whined, before darting a quick glance at Aziraphale. “No offense, professor.”

“You’ve got electives, don’t you Wensley?” Adam asked. Wensley bit his lip and nodded, still looking uncertain.

“What I want to know,” the lone girl of the group said, “Is whether your classes require prostrating yourself to the patriarchal colonialist hegemony that’s made such a mess of the world.” Aziraphale beamed. He was actually quite proud of their integration with the rest of Arts and Letters, notably Women’s and Gender Studies, Black Studies, Chicano/a Studies, the various Asian departments, and Queer Studies. It was what had inspired the department to move him from the Curriculum Committee to the Research Committee, but once formally altered, university bureaucracies did not easily return to their former state. His changes to the program stuck.

“Well, my dear…” By the time Aziraphale had finished his by-now quite practiced spiel about the major, the program, and the vital continuing relevance of knowing what some people around the globe wrote down several centuries before the invention of electricity, even if just to clearly and thoroughly see how they were entirely misguided, the student services table had been mobbed again. Things continued on in that fashion, Anthony’s table surrounded by people wanting to know about concerts, gym hours, and ID’s, while Aziraphale evangelized to any student who came within range of conversation. He half jumped out of his sweaty plastic chair when Anthony's voice came again from his table.

"So. Yeats. And your deliberate mischaracterization thereof."

"How di-do-poetry of Yeats?" he spluttered. Anthony sighed.

"Once upon a time I was in graduate studies myself. Poetry and Rhetoric."

"And you," Aziraphale said in a kind of breathless, horrified fascination, "left the field?"

"I started asking questions."

"Isn't that the--"

"The wrong kind of questions. Things like 'I'm training for how long to earn how much?' ‘Why does everyone act like I should be grateful to have a teaching assistantship when no one would be able to eat otherwise?’ ‘Why do people get anxious when I disagree with the professors?’ and 'Would any college in this country actually hire a brown man to teach Plato and Plutarch anyway?' Didn't take long for my program to get well pissed off at me.” Aziraphale nodded sympathetically. He was quite experienced with disappointed, frustrated, and occasionally incensed advisors.

“I didn't exactly _leave_ ,” Anthony continued, “just more kind of sauntered vaguely out the back door when no one was looking."

"Ah." was all Aziraphale could think to say to that. He wasn't wrong, not as such, just. Well. One carried on, didn't one? Fighting the good fight, as it were. 

"So, again, seriously, I've seen you at the last three of these things. You're on permanent shit duty. What. Did. You. Do?"

"I, well, I might have. ...coveredinternationalfeesforgraduatestudents. 

"What?!"

"Just for those students who found themselves in a spot, you understand!" Aziraphale squirmed. He had been nervous doing it, but that dear Ahmed was writing a thesis on queerness and the Islamic canon, of all things, and Aziraphale couldn’t bear to make him risk going back to Saudi Arabia for a bureaucratic technicality. And then once you helped one, well. You couldn’t very well tell the others, “oh, buck up and stiff upper lip!”

"How the hell... you would have needed significant--oh. Oh, you didn't, you magnificent bastard-"

"Language!" Aziraphale said loudly, whipping his head around to see if the tender ears of any students were in earshot. Anthony had leaned far forward onto his table and regarded Aziraphale with an expression that, had he read a description of it in a text, he might have called appreciation. "You re-appropriated research stipends."

"Mine first, of course!" And really, he didn't see why Sandalphon needed to go to the south of France for the entire summer just to write about the _Roman de la Rose_. Again. He didn't even visit any archives! "But, there was a vote, and I was replaced on the research committee, and now..." Anthony snorted.

"I'll bet you were. With extreme prejudice."

“If the administration didn’t take up far more than its fair share of the university budget, then I’m sure there wouldn’t be these kinds of problems!” Anthony shook his head, clearly still amused.

"I'm Crowley," he said, which jolted Aziraphale, as he had subconsciously already been calling him Anthony after surreptitiously looking up his picture and name on the university website in a particularly slow moment during his second information fair. "Anthony J. Crowley."

"Bit Bond, don't you think?" Anth--Crowley just grinned and tilted his head expectantly. Oh dratted. Aziraphale hated this part of any social encounter. But he couldn't very well be rude.

"My name is Aziraphale." Crowley let out a low whistle.

"Your parents must have been quite a piece of work."

"No!" Aziraphale protested instantly, "They're lovely, I loved them! They were just highly, ah, romantic at that point in their lives." Crowley's eyebrows were in danger of disappearing into his stupidly chic gelled hair. "They lived in a ...small religious community. It was the name of an angel, you know, biblically, and they thought, I suppose, well..." he trailed off lamely.

"And you don't go by your last name? I can recommend it. Keeps people from getting too familiar."

"Well, my last name is, ah, you see they changed that as well. All of ours when I was born. They recognized, you see," Aziraphale sped up to forestall whatever remark he could see bubbling to the surface of Crowley's delighted expression. "That families as people think of them in modern times aren't actually as traditional as people assume and indeed reflect the influence of patriarchal capitalism and--"

"Wait, did you grow up in some kind of a cult? 'Small religious community' my ass--"

"Please! Language!" Aziraphale said, before continuing on hastily, already feeling the flush spreading up his neck. Again. "It was nothing like that. It was nice, quite nice. But they changed all of our last names to, ah, Principality, and I just think Aziraphale suits me better."

The last part of his sentence was almost wholly drowned out by Crowley's guffaw, loud enough to draw the quizzical glance of everyone within earshot, and Aziraphale lost the battle against keeping his flush confined to his neck.

He was mercifully spared further conversation by the heavens finally opening up and pouring down, as they'd been threatening to do all day. The students scattered in all directions, and Aziraphale hurriedly put up his umbrella. The sounds of loud cursing from Crowley's direction made him wince and turn. Apparently umbrellas were not in fashion this season or clashed with his suit, as the Assistant Vice President of Student Services was vainly attempting to shield himself from the rain with a glossy pamphlet on luxury dorms that was wholly inadequate to the task. Aziraphale was moving before he consciously realized what he was doing. He shifted his umbrella over to cover both of them and found himself rather closely pressed into Crowley’s side. His umbrella, Aziraphale reflected, was really _not_ large enough for two. He was close enough to feel that the shirt underneath Crowley’s sharp suit was black silk and to see that his cool grey tie—scarf—ambiguous-fabric-thing had a subtle pattern of elongated S’s that reminded him of medieval script. Crowley turned to look at him, an odd expression of something like surprise curling at his mouth.

"My very own angel."


	2. Thoroughly Modern Communication

Aziraphale's email dinged three times in quick succession, so he sighed deeply and set aside the volume he'd been reading. Students. The email had been bothering him all morning--he'd never figured out how to turn the dratted notification sound off. He scrolled through his last few unread emails: Hey Dr. A--Prof, I'm not feeling--my grandmother very suddenly--asking ahead of the deadline so it won't be a problem--uncle visiting from abroad so obviously--really really sick--family booked my tickets and...

Make-up exams. They were all emails from students asking to re-schedule their midterm on Friday. Aziraphale frowned at his screen. He'd had more than the usual requests for extensions on the first paper as well, and his usual approach of fortifying himself with a whole tiramisu from the nice Italian patisserie across town and pushing through in one heroic charge had stretched out into a never-ending slog. Grading like this was akin to pulling off a bandage very slowly, so the pain of each individual hair coming out could be appreciated in it singular glory. Aziraphale might be a masochist in more than one way (it helped immensely in surviving qualifying exams and the academic job market) but not in regard to student work. There were five more essays waiting in his bag even now, the frankly embarrassingly brief pages weighing it down with guilt far disproportionate to their size. He frowned, clicked back to his inbox, counted down the screen, and gasped. Counting a few he had already approved earlier in the week, there were twenty-seven requests! Twenty-seven! There were barely forty students in the entire class! And they would all want different times, no doubt! This would be a nightmare! But he couldn't just deny them willy-nilly, that would be unfair! His thoughts abruptly jumped track from their regular route when confronted with a dilemma (Anxious Panic) to the unfamiliar destination of Sneaking Suspicion. Aziraphale was a kind man, but no one intelligent could still be naïve about student motivations after teaching for more than a semester or two.

Aziraphale opened a new tab and searched up something he could never, before this dark moment, have imagined himself reading on purpose: the official University Student Activities Calendar. He traced his finger along the screen until it came to Friday's date, and there it was, in damning big bold red letters: 24 Hour Dance-Till-You-FALL FESTIVAL, special exclusive FREE concert featuring... someone he had never heard of before in his life. That must mean they were genuinely, actively popular with contemporary students. Usually Aziraphale had recently heard the name of whomever the college brought in, as he somehow always ended up at least a decade behind the cultural times. He traced back up the calendar, looking for the original due date of his first paper, and landed smack on SOCIAL WEEK: Get to know your dorm mates with free activities every night, starting with Monday Night Trivia Battle! All students welcome! Find the college experience you’ll never forget! All-you-can-eat FREE PIZZA!

Aziraphale put his tea mug down with more than the necessary force.

* * *

**From** : [a.principality@uni.edu](mailto:a.principality@uni.edu)

**To** : [a.j.crowley@uni.edu](mailto:a.j.crowley@uni.edu)

**Subject: Student Activities Dates Complaint**

**Message body:**

Dear Mr. Crowley,

I hope you are staying dry during the unseasonably wet weather recently. I am Aziraphale Principality, an assistant professor in the Classics department. You probably don't recall, but we spoke at the student information fair a few weeks ago.

I have just discovered that the major student activity dates conflict precisely with the dates of major assignments in my class. It is causing significant disruption and aggravation, and I cannot be alone in this. I realize your office is quite busy, but I must ask you to check usual academic assignment dates before planning events and social fetes for the students.

With everlasting gratitude in advance,

Aziraphale

**From:** [a.j.crowley@uni.edu](mailto:a.j.crowley@uni.edu)

**To:** [a.principality@uni.edu](mailto:a.principality@uni.edu)

**Subject: RE: Student Activities Dates Complaint**

**Message body:**

oh believe me angel, i DID check ;-)

**From:** [a.j.crowley@uni.edu](mailto:a.j.crowley@uni.edu)

**To:** [a.principality@uni.edu](mailto:a.principality@uni.edu)

**Subject: PS: RE: Student Activities Dates Complaint**

**Message body:**

also already told you call me Crowley

**From:** [a.principality@uni.edu](mailto:a.principality@uni.edu)

**To:** [a.j.crowley@uni.edu](mailto:a.j.crowley@uni.edu)

**Subject: RE: PS: RE: Student Activities Dates Complaint**

**Message body:**

Dear Crowley,

I hope you are well. Please call me Aziraphale.

It is outrageous that you would deliberately interfere in the students' education like this! Is nothing sacred over in Administration? The university’s purpose is surely to facilitate higher learning, not distract from it!

In addition, email may be electronic, but it is still a formal form of communication derived from the letter, as you well know. Please use proper grammar in future and refrain from those horrid emoticons.

Sincerely,

Aziraphale

**From:** [a.j.crowley@uni.edu](mailto:a.j.crowley@uni.edu)

**To:** [a.principality@uni.edu](mailto:a.principality@uni.edu)

**Subject: RE: RE: PS: RE: Student Activities Dates Complaint**

**Message body:**

“The task must be made difficult, for only the difficult inspires the noble-hearted.”

:-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p :-p

**From:** [a.principality@uni.edu](mailto:a.principality@uni.edu)

**To:** [a.j.crowley@uni.edu](mailto:a.j.crowley@uni.edu)

**Subject: RE: RE: RE: PS: RE: Student Activities Dates Complaint**

**Message body:**

Dear Crowley,

It is one thing to adopt an existentialist view and quite another to deliberately engineer an artificial state of scarcity with regard to student time! Your insinuation is appallingly fiendish.

And again, allow me to remind you that emails are not text messages. You are obviously conversant with the rules of grammar, please observe them!

Sincerely,

Aziraphale

**From:** [a.j.crowley@uni.edu](mailto:a.j.crowley@uni.edu)

**To:** [a.principality@uni.edu](mailto:a.principality@uni.edu)

**Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: PS: RE: Student Activities Dates Complaint**

**Message body:**

u could just give me ur # so i could text u

Aziraphale sprang back from his computer like it had started hissing and shaking its rattle. His mind had unhelpfully (and wholly without reason) reminded him of an article he'd read recently on the visual culture of erotic photographs and cell phones. He swallowed nervously and was devoutly thankful he had never gotten one of those "web camera" things dear Anathema had told him about when she complained about having to travel all the way across the country for her interview. The manufacturers claimed they only watched you when you turned them on, but, well, they would say that, wouldn't they?

Aziraphale had always been grateful that strangers, without exception, assumed he was gay. As they were correct, it prevented any number of uncomfortable situations during his own university years and seemed to ward off certain unpleasant people he would rather not converse with anyway. (He was well-practiced at ignoring sneers, after all) But he was decidedly not gifted with the same power in reverse. It was why he had always preferred explicitly LGBTQ+ cultural spaces—everyone was already neatly labeled (even if that label was “Don’t confine the glory of my sexuality with your oppressive labels") which reduced the possibility of embarrassment. If Crowley just wanted him to communicate in a more technologically contemporary manner, of course the collegial thing to do would be to email him the number posthaste. The message did seem to lean that way: brief and undoubtedly annoyed by Aziraphale's (acknowledged) stubbornness when it came to the Rules of Grammar. And administrators, in Aziraphale’s experience, were always tapping at some sleek plastic rectangle or other. But cell phones were personal, weren't they? Not an appropriate channel for official University communication, surely? Was this, then… personal? He tried to take another gulp of tea only to find that his mug was empty, and frowned at it. But, he had heard of colleagues printing their cell phone numbers on syllabi, of all things, that they then handed out to the students. On purpose! The idea made Aziraphale shudder, personally, but it indicated that professional communication via cell phone was not entirely out of the realm of what could reasonably be assumed.

This was the problem, Aziraphale reflected grimly, with a training in textual analysis. Give him enough time and any given work could mean up or down, black or white, Good or Evil. Maybe deconstructionism had something to it besides a headache after all. Consider the context, then. Crowley was handsome. Tall. Stylish. Clearly aware of all of these facts. A man of both wealth and taste. As Aziraphale had painful personal knowledge, his own appearance was decidedly none of those things. Nor was it in vogue with any of the various gay sub-subcultures that he knew about. (though he had been pleased for the bears, once a bemused young man at the community center explained to him it had nothing to do with sports)

Put in that light, the answer was obvious. He was an idiot even to have considered …other… possibilities. Aziraphale typed up a suitable response with his number and hit “Send,” feeling a little wistful. He had no problem with his body—like his name, he felt it suited him, and the world would have to literally end before he would give up patisserie. But sometimes it was a bit. Well. Lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad people are enjoying this! I apologize for the grammar errors and repeated words creeping in. I'm writing most of this as emails to myself from my phone so I can keep up steam, and unfortunately my phone keyboard is. Well. You know.
> 
> Crowley's quotation is from Kierkegaard's journals. People call him one of the founders of existentialism, but imho he was really wrestling with the dilemma of faith (particularly Christian faith) in an observably cruel world. I think he fits Crowley pretty well. 
> 
> Anathema and Newt next chapter, promise. And I haven't forgotten about The Them.


	3. Planned and Unplanned Disasters

When Anathema walked in for her advisee meeting, Aziraphale was hunched over his desk and peering intently at the instructions manual for his cell phone.

“Oh hullo dear, be with you in a moment,” he said absently, lost in re-reading the same brief paragraph of simultaneously descriptive but utterly uninformative text for the third time. He chanced a poke at one of the irritatingly skinny side buttons on his phone, but it just took a flash photo of his office ceiling. He winced. Anathema reached across the desk and snatched the phone before he could try anything else.

“I really don’t get your thing with technology,” she said. “You’re so smart about everything else. What is it you’re trying to get it to do?”

“Just be quiet!” Aziraphale moaned. Whatever he had expected when he emailed Crowley his number, it was safe to say that it had not been this. He had barely boiled the water for another cup of tea when Crowley picked up their debate about whether internal struggle (over, say, the opportunity to consume free food and watch an entertaining movie versus to write a paper due at the end of the week) was the thing that made virtuous behavior virtuous in the first place or an unnecessary hurdle to achieving that state of grace. From there the conversation had somehow naturally flowed, in a way Aziraphale would have quite enjoyed, except. The damned thing, which used to be silent as a tomb unless Aziraphale was listening to one of his podcasts (dearest Ian had set that up before he graduated, insisting that Aziraphale could not supervise a thesis on the classical representation of technology without at least being aware of the reverse phenomenon) now made noises constantly! Incessantly! Continually! Even after he swore he had turned it to “quiet mode.” Crowley seemed to take Aziraphale not responding promptly to his messages as a personal challenge, and so his phone had begun beep-boop-ing its way through classes, lunches, showers, meetings, naps, and, most mortifyingly, the “How to Manage Student Engagement with Technology in the Classroom” training seminar. Gabriel had given him a paternal look of disappointment that was clearly resigned to Aziraphale’s general failure at, well, everything.

Anathema tapped a suspiciously short sequence into the phone, then turned the screen so Aziraphale could see the little “no bell ringing” icon.

“There you go. Silenced.”

“Are you certain?”

She rolled her eyes and nodded. “What’s up with it any..” she trailed off in a worrying way, clever dark eyes riveted to the screen. Anathema fended off Aziraphale’s desperate grab for the phone without even bothering to look away from what Aziraphale somehow just knew was an inappropriate message from Crowley.

“Aziraphale! You could have TOLD me!” she said, now tapping and scrolling quickly as her eyebrows made a speedy bid to escape back into her hairline.

“I-I-I-Who-What do you mean?” Aziraphale stammered weakly.

“WHO is ‘Mr. Anthony J. Crowley,’” she asked, still scrolling furiously, “who has called you ‘angel’ at least twenty-seven times, and WHERE can I see a picture?”

Aziraphale flushed hotly. “It’s not like that! He’s… he works at the university. We’re resolving a scheduling issue.” Anathema scoffed.

“Scheduling what, a hook--Wait.” Anathema looked up sharply. “He’s not bothering you, is he?” Aziraphale gaped. “Sexually harassing you over text message?”

“No! No, nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale responded instantly, although given a second to think, there might have been some truth, not to the sexual part of course, but—

“Then WHY, in the name of all that is holy and unholy, have you not said yes yet to lunch?”

“What?!”

Anathema turned the phone’s screen towards him again, narrowing her eyes into a glare that surely, Aziraphale thought, should only go from advisor to advisee and not the other way around.

“At 11:17, and I quote, ‘Tempt you to a spot of lunch?’ NO reply from you. It’s past noon!”

“I’ve been in student meetings since this morning,” Aziraphale said weakly as Anathema’s thumbs flew over his phone’s screen. “We’re in a meeting right now. For another half hour.”

“Not anymore,” she said and handed the phone back to him.

“So sorry for my rudeness,” Aziraphale read aloud and gave Anathema a Look, “got caught up with students, OF COURSE lunch sounds lovely. Meet you at 1 at the university club—Anathema! I have more students to meet!”

“So isn’t it lucky that your TA, to whom you hardly ever relax enough to give any work, is here to take them for you?”

“Oh, no, dear girl, I couldn’t ask you to—“

“Aziraphale,” she said firmly, “I am insisting. It’ll be good for me anyway. Pedagogical training and all that.” Aziraphale bit his lip, but, well. Lunch with Crowley did sound… tempting. And he liked the bow tie he was wearing today, with the daring spots of emerald green in the otherwise brown and tan shades of the houndstooth pattern. It deserved to go someplace nice.

* * *

Crowley lounged against the wall in the University Club lobby in yet another striking suit, hips at a sexy—he meant ridiculous--angle. Crowley chatted animatedly with the hostess, smiling like she was the only person in the world who existed for him in that moment. There you are, then, Aziraphale thought. Not even gay after all. Aziraphale would die alone, surrounded by: his books, empty mugs of tea, and the remains of a box of scrumptious chocolate cordials. You just had to be realistic about these things. As he came into range of the conversation, Crowley was saying, "--and that's why you'd be much better off with something practical, like hotel management or law, rather than History of Art--"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale cut in, too scandalized to be polite. "What are you saying?" He turned to the hostess and said, with all the sincerity he could muster in his flustered state, "Art is the sublime made truth. Without the sublime, without beauty, without truth, we are nothing. Art History is quite the most practical major there is," he glared pointedly at Crowley, "because without art, there is no life." Aziraphale abruptly realized he had at some point taken her hands in his and hurriedly let go. "Dreadfully sorry, my dear girl, no excuse." She seemed a little dazed but nodded, looking between him and Crowley with, of all things, a blush.

"Uh, now that your whole party is here… Let me, um. Find a server. Yes."

She hurried off, and Aziraphale turned to Crowley, frowning at his unrepentant grin.

"And what was that?"

"Got to keep them on their toes, angel." Aziraphale flushed again.

"I really wish you would stop calling me that," he said.

"But you’re so funny when you blush" Crowley said. "Like one of Boucher’s cherubs."

"Yes, well, seeing as you apparently believe art has no value, I remain consistent in my opinion. On my own name.”

"Be thankful, angel, I could have gone with ‘tacky religious greeting card.’ And I only said art has no Practical purpose, not that it had no value," Crowley said as they headed for a table, "I'm all for purposeless things, actually." Aziraphale gave Crowley a skeptical look that he hoped conveyed the full depth of how unimpressed he was. "Think of it as thinning the herd," Crowley said. "If I can convince someone to quit their art history major in ten minutes of conversation, art’s better off without them."

"Disagree. Pursue that approach and art is far more likely to end up full of posh overconfident tossers, not better artists, critics, and historians,” Aziraphale said as he did the undignified waddle-slide that restaurant booths always demanded. When he looked up, he was surprised to meet Crowley’s smile, alive with glee.

“Actually, that would—“ Aziraphale started.

“--Explain a lot about art!” Crowley finished, crowing. Aziraphale was relieved. He’d had just enough time on the swift walk over from his office to worry that their digital rapport would not hold up in person. He’d been a sympathetic listening ear to many, many tales of woe over misleading “Grinder” messages. But it held up all the way through a crisp salad of locally grown greens and raddishes, exquisite duck à l’orange, and a glass of a remarkably refreshing white wine Crowley had insisted he try but also refused to let him see the cost for. It wasn’t until the dessert course, in fact, a decadent mille-feuile dripping with caramel and topped with black volcano sea salt, that Aziraphale remembered the actual purpose of their lunch.

“So, ah, thank you so much for meeting with me on such short notice,” Aziraphale said. “Sorry for having gotten off track.” Crowley gave him an odd, suddenly unreadable look. “About the activities dates, I mean. I’m sure I could send some emails around, gather up the usual dates for major assignments in the different colleges and departments, make a list and save you some trouble for next semester.”

“Oh, no need,” Crowley drawled. “I usually mess with pre-med, so Classics made a bit of a change.”

“What?!”

“Oh don’t look so shocked,” he said. “If someone can’t handle a little toga party the night before their final, you don’t really want them poking around in your spleen, do you?”

Aziraphale wanted to look disapproving again, but he’d just swallowed another forkful of the mille-feuile. Some experiences were just too beautiful to allow distraction. Crowley stared at him until he finished, or at least Aziraphale thought he did. He was wearing a different pair of dark glasses today, but the lenses were still irritatingly opaque. Very striking—eccentric, that was—to keep wearing them indoors.

“So, my turn,” Crowley said, looking away. “Who actually was it who replied, from your phone, to my text about lunch?” Aziraphale sighed.

“Anathema Device, one of my graduate students. She was helping me with the hideous noise the phone makes every time it receives a text message and, well. She got a tad bit over-excited.” Crowley was still silent. “She, ah, wanted to take the rest of my student meetings, I think. Very keen on her training, but I do worry leaving her alone with the barbarians.”

“That’s her next draft due date moved up a few weeks, then, I take it?” Crowley was still smiling, allowing for his usual mocking air, but something indefinable had changed in the air between them. He seemed more remote, somehow. “Committing her advisor to unwanted administrative meetings?” Aziraphale felt that he had done something wrong but had no idea what. It was a new and uncomfortable feeling—usually he knew very well what he was supposed to do, even if he admittedly didn’t necessarily always follow through in quite the way the supposer intended.

“Oh no no no, not at all—I could never, Anathema is a darling and a wonderful--and—and this has been lovely!” he said with feeling. “It’s just, I had been in student meetings all morning—it was during my meeting with dear Anathema about her article revisions, in fact, when she noticed your message—and, I mean, one doesn’t want to be rude, checking your phone when there’s a student right in front of you?” Crowley, who was at that very moment aggressively swiping and tapping something on his own phone, grunted a vaguely acquiescent noise. His hair fell slightly forwards as he considered something on the screen, and Aziraphale found himself unwillingly mesmerized rather than annoyed at the blatant rudeness. His hair was generally black, of course, and silky, but there were notes of dark, wine-colored auburn where it caught the light from the club’s chandelier. Gorgeous, his mind supplied. Deep, rich, nuanced. Aziraphale swallowed involuntarily.

Not wanting to be caught staring, he pulled out his own phone. Oh goodness gracious! Anathema really had managed to put it on silent mode. Five missed calls from her number and three from his office phone? What on God’s green earth could have happened?! He had missed text messages too, but the phone began to ring—well, the screen said it was, anyway—with another call from Anathema even as he stared at it.

“Dreadfully sorry, my apologies, but I think I rather must pick this up,” he said in Crowley’s direction, though he still appeared absorbed in his own phone. Anathema didn’t even wait for Aziraphale to say hello before barking at him.

“THANK GOD you’re finally picking up, that must have been SOME LUNCH. Aziraphale, you have to get back here this instant! Immediately! We are in crisis!”

“Wha?”

“The—the computers. Something’s happened with the computers,” she hissed. “The building lights went out, so I lit those candles the maintenance people are always on you about, but it was all the computers too, and when everything came back online the Gradebook. Was. Gone. GONE, Aziraphale!”

“The lights? What could that have to do with the—the gradebook? What? Gone?”

“And you didn’t tell me that all of the students would want ME to calculate their current course average to know if they can get from a B+ to an A- like they’ve never had basic math or to challenge their paper score. The rubrics and paper feedback and the exam scores were all IN THE GRADEBOOK.”

“Gone?” Aziraphale’s stomach was trying to drop out of his body and having some success, weighed down as it was with quite the most excellent lunch he’d had in recent memory. “The gradebook is gone? All—all of it? But. The papers. They’re returned. We’ve given them all back to the students. Most of them are probably in bins by now.” Anathema said something emphatic into the phone, but out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale saw Crowley wince.

“That’s your graduate student, right?” Crowley said, finally looking up from his own phone. “I better come back with you. Still haven't gotten the timing down for when to release him.”

“Uh, yes, there’s apparently been some kind of terrible trouble with the, ah, the computers,” Aziraphale said, too stunned to register the “I better come with you” part of the sentence or consider Crowley's cryptic remark. “I don't know what I can actually do about it, but she might need—moral support. Moral support." Crowley headed for the door, and Aziraphale followed in a daze, nausea building. Gabriel was going to crucify him for this. And not in a way that allowed for rising again. Aziraphale realized he’d been silent and started to reassure Anathema through the phone that he was coming, at least, and discovered she had already hung up on him. It wasn’t until they had cleared the club entirely that Aziraphale realized he hadn’t paid for his share of the meal. Crowley waved his anxious hand-wringing away.

"Working lunch, right? What else are budgets for?” 

* * *

Standing in the hall looking into his office (it really was barely large enough to accommodate two people, much less the five currently converged on it), Aziraphale saw a small pale man in glasses huddled on the floor under his desk and next to Aziraphale's ancient desktop. He had the stock still expression of a deer in headlights. Anathema and Shadwell, the building's IT supervisor, stood over him and fairly vibrated with contained rage. The poor boy appeared to be watching his life flash before his eyes.

"Why hellloooooo," Crowley said cheerfully. Anathema and Shadwell whipped their heads around to glare daggers at him, and the man on the floor started sweating even more visibly. Anathema seemed vaguely relieved to see Aziraphale, though what she thought he could do about anything, he hadn't the foggiest idea.

"Shadwell! Been a while, eh? And you," Crowley continued, smiling widely and holding out his hand, "must be the brilliant Anathema Device." He gave her hand a firm shake through the doorway and then dipped to press a quick kiss to her knuckles. "Aziraphale couldn't stop singing your praises all lunch."

"No, that's not--I mean, not like—oh no, of course dear you know I think the world--just--I, um, so there is a problem with the computer?" Aziraphale said, flushing and glaring at Crowley at the same time. Anathema gave Crowley a dark look, though Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was for keeping him distracted through lunch or for misplaced chivalry.

"Charmed, I'm sure. _Newton_ , here," she thrust an accusing finger in the huddled man's direction, "tells me he's _your_ assistant?"

"Indeed!" Crowley said, clapping his hands together and looking entirely too pleased with himself as Aziraphale swiveled to him in shock. "I read that your department was shorthanded, Shadwell, to handle the software updates on faculty computers and labs on this floor?" Shadwell's eyes bulged but Crowley continued smoothly on. "Thought Newt here could give you some assistance. Don't worry, I've alerted the usual crew, they’ll be here momentarily.”

“Usual crew?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh yes,” Crowley replied. “Two emeritus professors from Comp Sci and one of their friends, I think senior faculty in electrical engineering? Newt has something of a gift with technology, and they find it utterly fascinating. I have a little group of his admirers on WhatsApp.”

“One day he’s going to fry something so far into the black reaches of hell that those brainiacs can’t fix it,” Shadwell said, having finally gotten his wrath sufficiently under control to speak. “Keep him OUT of my buildings, I’ve got enough trouble on my hands with his lot,” Shadwell jabbed a gnarled finger accusingly in Aziraphale’s direction, “to still be sweating come judgment day.”

Newt, apparently having decided this was his moment of opportunity, began surreptitiously crawling around the desk towards escape. Anathema stepped hard on the untucked trailing end of his shirt to pin him in place.

“And, that reminds me, YOU,” Shadwell said, glaring straight at an Aziraphale who felt that he had begun to see the outlines of the situation and did not care for them at all, “whatever you need to do to make nice with HIM,” he swung his arm around to point at Crowley, who was doing a very poor job of projecting innocence, “you do it right quick. I don’t care, you hear me, who was right or wrong at the beginning, or how much it costs, or whatever humiliating, disgusting, deviant—“ Shadwell’s rant was thankfully cut short by the ding of the elevator arriving and several feverishly excited people in dress shirts and glasses bursting out of it. They balanced transparent storage boxes of wiring bits, circuit board components, and other miscellaneous bits and bobs (Aziraphale thought he saw a small fire extinguisher) with stacks of coding reference manuals. Anathema gave way, letting Newt go with poor grace. Aziraphale caught Crowley’s glance as he finished heartily shaking hands with the rescue crew’s leader. (“Oh, no Uehara today?” “She’s cutting her lecture off early as we speak, should be here in five. You know how we appreciate the opportunity.") They watched as several of the younger techies pulled out notepads and begin to quiz Newt on the sequence of what, exactly, he had done.

“I hear they’ve gotten a few articles out of him,” Crowley said. “Good journals too.”

“Did you—you _didn’t_ —that is to say, you didn’t send your assistant here hoping to cause this sort of thing, _on purpose_. Did you?” Aziraphale asked slowly. Crowley shrugged with the same infuriatingly loose-limbed grace.

“What? You weren’t answering your texts all morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so apparently the gentlemen are going to take a little longer to get their acts together than I first thought. We are officially entering slow-burn territory. Ah, sorry? Enjoy the extra-long chapter as recompense! Crowley has Indian (as in, from India) heritage in this AU, if the hair description surprised you. I'm trying to keep Aziraphale's actual dialogue phrasing more British but the text (even when it's describing his thoughts) more American; not sure if it's really working. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. Comments make the writing flow!


	4. Part of the Community

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.

“And then,” Aziraphale said wretchedly, “it transpired that it wasn’t just _my_ gradebook that had gone poof.” Dr. Marjorie Potts, Ph.D. (Women’s and Gender Studies), CNM, AKA Madame Tracy, was laughing so hard that any less seasoned veteran of the nail salon would have had polish all over her hands, the wall, the ceiling, and the face of her greatly displeased technician. Aziraphale, watching the light in her eyes, couldn’t help but smile back despite barely surviving the most harrowing forty-eight hours of his life since his qualifying exams. The look on Michael’s face, in particular, had been priceless. Marjorie, as a soul trapped in the perdition of adjunct teaching for the past twenty-odd years, could imagine and appreciate the scene in all the nuanced flavors of its glory.

The two had become fast friends, thankfully, through one of the many small absurdities of academic life. Aziraphale had been both in his first semester and completely aghast when Gabriel had tasked him, as a vaunted Tenure Track Assistant Professor, with “peer” evaluating the adjunct lecturer Marjorie Potts. She’d been teaching the same (very popular) “Classical Sex: From Babylon to Rome” course since before he had even entered graduate school, so what Gabriel thought _he_ could tell _her_ about teaching was anyone’s guess. Well-used to such things, she had not only taken the indignity in stride but evidenced great delight in having an easily embarrassed Aziraphale at her mercy for an entire upper-division undergraduate seminar on Pompeii’s brothels. They now met for regular Sunday morning manicure and gossip sessions. (courtesy of Aziraphale because, really, adjunct pay was a joke no one but administrators found funny) Marjorie also moonlighted as a psychic, midwife, dominatrix, yogi, and “erotic relaxation specialist,” (refer to previous re: adjunct pay) which meant this week was one of the rare times Aziraphale had the best “you won’t believe what happened to me” story.

“When I left, dear Bill, Yao, Mohammed, Cheryl, Uehara, and Li were still working on how Newt had managed to affect data that was ‘in the cloud’ with a freak electrical surge from my desktop.” Aziraphale had thought that electricity and clouds seemed to go together quite naturally, but he happily deferred to the scientists on such matters. “Gabriel had to threaten to call in Dean Enoch, in the end, to motivate them to focus on recovering the gradebooks rather than figuring out exactly how it had all gone wrong.”

“But they got them all back?”

“They did, thank God everlasting,” Aziraphale said with deep feeling. He had seen his career circling faster and faster into the drain as Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon all came storming down the hall towards the impromptu hackathon occurring in his office. And that was before Gabriel had even shown up on campus. Crowley, naturally, was by that point nowhere to be found, and the other faculty were extremely loathe to believe that the whole affair wasn’t somehow entirely Aziraphale’s fault.

“Still though, I’ll have to leave something particularly restorative out for my Sergeant Shadwell tonight,” Marjorie said. That the Arts and Letters college IT supervisor lived in the apartment directly opposite hers had been something of a shock to Aziraphale the first time he visited. Shadwell had mistaken him for one of Marjorie’s clients, in her Madame Tracy persona, and come bursting out of his door with an almost certainly rehearsed diatribe about the decline of morality in modern times, as well as an almost certainly unlicensed shotgun. Aziraphale had no idea how she got any clients at all, with such a neighbor, but she had waved his concerns away. “All part of the experience, honey. They love a bit of drama.” He had even less of an idea what motivated her (by now) epic romantic pursuit of the disagreeable man, but he couldn’t really throw stones at anyone else’s mixed-up love life. And as Marjorie pursued Shadwell’s heart largely through his stomach and used Aziraphale as a taste tester, he came out rather ahead in the whole affair.

“Think Lyle is up by now?” he asked her. They had both been drafted to help Lyle, AKA Blondie Golightly the drag queen who lived in the apartment above Marjorie, to prep for a brunch and bingo engagement later in the day. Marjorie was a dab hand at makeup and Aziraphale, thanks to overenthusiasm for his foray into medieval bookbinding, could sew someone into a garment like a champ. (Getting them out of it again was decidedly not his problem. He recommended a craft knife.) Blondie could do her own makeup and wardrobe, of course, but having a prep team saved valuable hangover sleep-off time. Also, as a fellow English expat, Lyle deeply appreciated Aziraphale’s ability to make a proper cup of morning tea and his shared dismay over things like the Americans’ bullheaded insistence on calling the ground floor the “first,” despite it being clearly, well, on the ground. Even the French knew better than that.

“Or we’ll have to throw some water over his fool head to wake him up,” Marjorie said. “Possibly the flavor of the night too—they came in hot and heavy something like four-thirty this morning, knocked up against every door in the building on their way upstairs.”

“Alright for some, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said with a sigh as he paid for their manicures. Blondie was stunning, of course, a proper punk rock Audrey Hepburn, and Lyle himself looked as Aziraphale fancied he might had he ever been in the least interested in football. Or “soccer,” as the Americans insisted on calling it. He really had landed in a ridiculous place. But if wishes were tenure-track jobs, then all graduates would--well. Probably best not to think about that. Marjorie tutted at him, interlacing their arms for the walk back to her building.

“You have the charisma, uniqueness, and talent, bless your heart. All you need is the nerve.”

“Yes, thank you for that, Madame RuPaul,” he said testily. This was an old argument, but he just really wasn’t in the mood that morning. Crowley’s text messages had dwindled from a firehose blast down to a trickle since The Lunch. Going back over their conversation and the whole computer fiasco, Aziraphale could identify only too many moments where he could have made the still undetermined error that had given offense, depending on how he read into Crowley’s behavior and intent. Anathema had been no help. She just glared darkly in Newt’s direction and applied antiseptic wipe to her knuckles where Crowley had kissed them, saying maybe it wasn’t such a great loss if nothing came of Mr. Anthony J. Crowley after all. Aziraphale… was starting to hope that if he could just get his head on straight (in a manner of speaking), maybe something would.

* * *

Lyle’s door was still locked when they got there, but he’d given Marjorie a key for just this eventuality. “Up and at ‘em, sunshine,” she called, then banged on his closed bedroom door with the side of her fist for emphasis. Aziraphale moved swiftly into the kitchen to start the water for tea (himself and Lyle) and the grounds for coffee (Marjorie). “That money’s not going to make itself with your sweet little tush in bed,” she yelled, perhaps slightly louder than was strictly necessary. A heartfelt groan and foul language answered her through the wall. At least he was conscious, then.

A moment later, Lyle opened the door and staggered through, trailed by muffled whining protests of “No… cold now…” from his indeed still present Saturday-night stand. Aziraphale frowned. There was something familiar about the voice, but he couldn’t place it. It didn’t sound like Steven, (“Steve-y Eve-y,” when she was on stage) the other queen Lyle had been on-again, off-again with as long as Aziraphale had known him. No loss there. Lyle always had been too kind for him.

“You. Are. A. Treasure,” Lyle said, draining his first mug of tea and kissing Aziraphale on either cheek in the French fashion despite his singularly appalling morning breath. “Better be decent when you come out here, Tony,” Lyle called back to his room. “I have highly educated and distinguished company.”

“You must not want me to leave, I’ve never been _decent_ in my—“ said Anthony J. Crowley as he walked yawning through the door, stopping abruptly short when his eyes, for the first time naked on his face, met Aziraphale’s. They shone a luminous golden amber, somehow both completely unexpected and utterly perfect against the dark sepia of his skin and shaded by fine, dark bedhead. Admittedly, they were currently blinking a lot. “Tony” was a far cry from the perfectly polished Assistant Vice President of Student Services, who seemed to live in his designer suits. The dark oil-slicked jeans appeared to be chemically bonded with his long legs, a completely unnecessary red and black snakeskin belt still hanging undone around his hips. Not only his eyes but the full gorgeous length of his lithe, toned arms and shoulders were on display, torso barely covered by a loose, ripped tank top with “Debbie says use condoms” printed in block letters. That would be Debbie Harry, his mind supplied inanely. No wonder he and Lyle went right for each other.

Crowley’s mouth hung open and his whole body twitched like he might be about to bolt out the door—or the window. Aziraphale, by contrast, felt a deep, solid stillness settle over him. That was that, then. Demonstrably sexually interested in men after all. But not, he thought, and glanced over to where Lyle was doing an expansive morning stretch with all of his stupid abs, going Aziraphale’s speed after all. That was fine. Nothing he hadn’t expected, really.

“Oh, um, introductions, I guess?” Lyle said, utterly oblivious to the tension in the room. Marjorie stuffed a protein bar into his mouth and looked worriedly at Aziraphale. He had told her the whole story, of course, and she had been strongly of the “It was a DATE, you complete and utter oblivious doofus!” opinion. Well. Not even an “erotic relaxation specialist” was right all the time, and she’d only been going off Aziraphale’s clearly overly optimistic account.

“Uh,” Crowley said.

“Good morning, ‘Tony,’” Aziraphale said, trying the name out and grimacing. He hated it. “I didn’t know you were part of the community. Lovely to see you again. You’ll be glad to know that the computer trouble a few days ago eventually got worked out. Tea? There’s coffee as well, of course, if you’d prefer. Possibly orange juice if Lyle hasn’t drunk it all again.”

“Aziraphale,” Marjorie breathed out, hands making a calming gesture for some reason. That was silly. He was perfectly calm.

“All gone,” Lyle said, vaguely apologetic around a mouthful of protein bar. “Never made it to the shops yesterday. Did get that new whatsit padding you told me about, though.”

“Brilliant,” Aziraphale said, turning to smile at Lyle. “It’s stashed in the usual disaster zone with the dress?” By the time he came back with Blondie’s gown, the new ecologically responsible padding material, and his sewing kit, Crowley was gone.

* * *

The next afternoon, Aziraphale’s phone made a strange but pleasant noise. Some kind of bird chirping. Maybe… a nightingale? He picked it up and frowned. There was a new text message.

**Anthony J. Crowley** : So, that was unexpected, seeing you like that the other day.

 **Aziraphale** : Yes, it certainly was.

 **Aziraphale** : Why is my text alert noise for you now a nightingale?

 **Anthony J. Crowley** : You said that you didn’t like the noise.

 **Anthony J. Crowley** : That your phone made.

 **Anthony J. Crowley** : When I messaged you.

 **Aziraphale** : Ah.

 **Aziraphale** : And you did this, how?

 **Anthony J. Crowley** : You opened an email from Shadwell on your phone, right? Something about a new rare book scanning machine?

 **Aziraphale** : Yes.

 **Anthony J. Crowley** : Macro in it

 **Anthony J. Crowley** : threatened to send Newt to the payroll department

Aziraphale briefly debated asking what a “macro” was and decided he didn’t really care.

**Aziraphale** : I see.

He went back to reading his book, an intriguing if staidly written comparative history of the material culture of textual objects across ancient Islamic, Jewish, and Christian societies. Mondays were his off-campus days, and he was valiantly striving to set aside that time for research. Peer-reviewed journal articles and book manuscripts weren’t going to write themselves, and he would be damned—likely in actual literal fact—if he didn’t go up for tenure with an utterly unimpeachable record. The nightingale chirruped from his phone again.

**Anthony J. Crowley** : Pretty heteronormative to judge me for having a sex life, angel.

 **Aziraphale** : Who said anything about judging?

 **Anthony J. Crowley** : Feeling pretty judged here

 **Aziraphale** : Nothing of the sort, I assure you, my dear. I’m thrilled you and Lyle were able to enjoy each other’s company.

 **Anthony J. Crowley** : wtf is that, ‘enjoy each other’s company,’ we hooked up. You know thats what it was. I know that's what it was.

 **Aziraphale** : Different people just want different things.

 **Anthony J. Crowley:** what consenting, adult people who aren't in a relationship do.

 **Anthony J. Crowley** : you seriously giving me that ‘takes all types to make a world’ bullshit?

 **Aziraphale** : No need to be crude.

 **Aziraphale** : But, yes, in actual fact. It does.

 **Anthony J. Crowley** : and what type am I?

 **Anthony J. Crowley** : In actual fact.

Stunning, his mind supplied. Eccentric. Hilarious. Smart. Practically perfect in every way.

**Aziraphale** : Apparently a pissy one.

He dug around in his bag for the little card where Anathema had written down the instructions for how to silence his phone. This wasn’t helping him work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ducks and runs for cover)
> 
> Like I said, some bumps developed. But they'll still get there in the end.


	5. A Team Effort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone know Brian's (of The Them) last name? I found it for everyone else, but somehow Brian is eluding me. I've gone for "Smith" as a reasonable guess but happy to update.

When he got the call, Aziraphale had been idly speculating if there was some even less desirable departmental service than information fair duty. Assessment, possibly. No, Michael would never give that up. And Gabriel, knowing him, would just add whatever he came up with on top of the information fairs instead of letting him swap and then act dreadfully approving of his “initiative to serve the department” despite knowing full well what Aziraphale had actually wanted. He’d been able to avoid thinking about it, but the exam period was now upon them and the new term's student activity fair loomed. At said fair he would definitely see Crowley again, and Aziraphale still had no earthly idea what he was going to say (he hadn't avoided thinking about it).

That Sunday Morning it had been imperative to bring Lyle up to speed _immediately_. Otherwise, judging by past form, Aziraphale and Marjorie would have been treated to an extended, detailed, and vivid analysis of Crowley’s sexual performance while they helped prep Blondie for drag bingo. Lyle had been rather unimpressed with his distress. (“Aziraphale, you’re a mate, but if you think for a second I’m not going to fuck some gorgeous man with a Blondie shirt because you _might_ have _possibly_ chatted him up via text or _maybe_ had one lunch date with—that I am going to need ALL the details on, by the fucking by—you better get into kinkier shit and buy me one hell of a Florentine belt.”) So instead, the extended and detailed analysis had been of Aziraphale’s socio-emotional skills (or, rather, his lack thereof). Lyle and Marjorie had focused on confidence, but Aziraphale’s big takeaway was that while it was regrettably too late to stop Marjorie and Anathema from knowing each other, and much too late to stop Marjorie and Lyle from knowing each other, he must at all costs prevent Anathema and Lyle becoming acquainted so they could all three band together in a team effort to gang up on him.

In fact Anathema, whom Aziraphale had been sure would automatically take his side in any tiff against Crowley (re: the Computer Incident), had instead stared at him in utter silence for a full minute and then delivered an impromptu but extremely thorough lecture on the concept, practice, and inherent wrongness of “slut shaming.” Lyle and Marjorie had both been of the opinion that it would do Aziraphale a world of good to do some cruising in the scene himself, and while Anathema just barely respected the professional nature of the advisor-advisee bond enough to avoid directly telling her thesis supervisor to go get laid, she was clearly in agreement. But that just. It wasn’t. It just wasn’t his style. Aziraphale had had sex before, he wasn’t “saving himself for marriage” or anything, but he found it difficult to, well, do it when there wasn’t a pre-existing bond of trust and mutual shared knowledge. Otherwise, he had frankly found sex to be a messy and high-embarrassment probability experience. Could you be “anti-slut” shamed? Prude-shamed? Hegemony didn’t usually work that way, but surely there was subcultural context to consider?

None of these conversations helped Aziraphale with his central concern: how to apologize for his (in hindsight) appallingly rude behavior as well as to convey his full understanding that Crowley just wanted a friend and that Aziraphale would quite like one too. Preferably one who didn’t already know both Lyle and Anathema, but you couldn’t have everything. Figuring that wording out was a task that required truly massive levels of procrastination. Much like writing conference presentations, so you’d have thought he’d be better at it by now.

Speaking of procrastination, it was with a small frisson of pleasure that Aziraphale greeted the ring of his office phone. In stark contrast to his cell phone, Aziraphale rather liked his office phone. The plastic was weighty and substantial in his hand, and it was clear both where one should listen and where one should speak. Very intuitive design, none of these opaque rectangles that were so fashionable now. It helped too that the people who called his office phone very rarely wanted to speak to Aziraphale himself. Usually they had gotten confused trying to reach some other university office or department, and Aziraphale, with the university website handily on the computer right in front of him, could spend an enjoyable few minutes helping them get wherever they needed to go. In telephonic terms, obviously.

Thus it was a shock on multiple levels when Aziraphale picked up his office phone and said “Hello, Dr. Aziraphale Principality’s office,” only to hear Crowley urgently whispering down the line.

“Look, Aziraphale, I don’t know if you blocked me on your cell or hate me or whatever, it doesn’t matter, but you have to get down to Student Services right _fucking_ now. Your little gang is about to be expelled for plagiarism if something miraculous doesn’t happen in the next half hour.” Aziraphale grabbed for his cell phone, disturbed enough to not even comment on Crowley’s language. He’d done no such thing! For starters, he wouldn't have the first idea how! He had, however, rather gotten into the habit of leaving it silenced. Life was so much more peaceful when people couldn’t get at you every minute of every day. The screen showed a string of unanswered texts and three missed calls from Crowley, after which he had apparently decided to try a Hail Mary and phone his office number. Thank the Lord.

“Plagiarism?! _Expelled_! My—The Them?” There were really no other students he could possibly mean. Aziraphale and Anathema both had grown quite fond of their little freshmen quartet, the only students who came to their office hours to talk about the material rather than about their grade vis-à-vis said material. Adam and Brian had already declared Classics majors (mostly, he thought, so they were each guaranteed someone to argue with in class throughout their full undergraduate careers), and Pepper at least had it in the mix of what sounded like a complex multi-disciplinary high-credit hour balancing act of an evolving five-year-MA plan. Wensleydale would go with Accountancy, no doubt about that, but he’d been bullied into signing up with the other three for Marjorie’s spring course (“Women’s Work: The First 20,000 Years”) after a singularly ill-advised comment about Artemisia. What Crowley was saying was utterly ridiculous, but he did not sound like he was joking. Crowley hissed the room number and hung up. Aziraphale left his office at a dead run, only realizing much too late and to his great chagrin that he’d changed from impermeable waterproof snow boots into soft, fuzz-lined cat-and-tea print slipper-shoes upon settling in that morning.

* * *

When he finally reached the indicated room and paused briefly to compose himself before barging in, Aziraphale was significantly more winded (and had significantly colder, soggier feet) but no less confused. Plagiarism was never an expulsion-level offense, not really. It was technically listed as a possible punishment in the student handbook, but he had never heard of it actually being handed down. Particularly in the first instance! In truth even entirely failing a course was rare and usually required staggering levels of stupidity, deceit, and mule-headedness. That said, Aziraphale reflected grimly as Adam saw him, waved brightly, and interrupted someone talking in an official monotone to call out “Hi Professor Aziraphale!” The Them were not known for backing down from a challenge.

“What is _he_ doing here?” Sandalphon asked, much less pleased to see him.

“Given what the students’ve been saying, professor,” Crowley said, causally stifling a yawn as if the entire affair bored him, “Bringing Dr. Principality in seemed like the best way to speed things up so we can all get out of here sometime this century.”

Sandalphon said something caustic, but Aziraphale tuned him out with long-practiced ease and scanned the room. Sandalphon must be the professor bringing the complaint. He was sitting at a table to Aziraphale’s left, accompanied by Gabriel in his role as department chair. The Them were at a table to his right, seated all in a row and leaning so their shoulders touched for mutual support. As far as Aziraphale could read body language, Adam looked breezily unperturbed, Pepper had a scowl for the ages, and Brian and Wensleydale were terrified but holding it together. Facing both of these tables at the front of the room was a longer one, raised slightly higher up on a dais. Crowley, Dean Enoch, three student representatives whose faces showed serious stress, and a few faculty he didn’t know but assumed were from other colleges (and who mostly looked like they wanted to take a nap or like they were trying to pretend to be reading their official case folders rather than checking email and scrolling Facebook using the folder as camouflage) sat in judgment.

“I am, ah, happy to help, whew—my goodness, just a little out of breath--as I can, of course,” Aziraphale said weakly, still wheezing a bit and trying to psychically commune somehow with Adam or Pepper. _What have you done?_

“It is… unusual to have another faculty member present, besides the relevant parties, department chair, and the committee,” Dean Enoch said, with a suspicious sidelong glance at Crowley, “but this is indeed an unusual case. That being said, our foremost concern of course is not expediency--”

“Couldn’t have that,” Crowley muttered and received a dark look.

“--But reaching a just and right decision on the weighty sentence which has been proposed. Dr. Principality,” he turned to address Aziraphale, “Mr. Young, Miss Moonchild, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Wensleydale have been telling us about their conversations with you and your teaching assistant during the office hours for your Introduction to Classics course. Is that correct?”

“Yes, they come every week. Model students. Dedicated to, ah, really delving into the nuance and context of the material. Adam and—Mr. Young and Mr. Smith, that is, have already declared Classics majors even though this is only their first semester.”

“Laudable initiative,” said one of the panel faculty, whom Aziraphale had been pretty sure was previously checking his email but now seemed uncomfortably focused on him. Maybe College of Sciences? Art? Possibly Design? He reminded Aziraphale of Crowley and Newt’s techie rescue squad but intimidatingly attractive. Something haughty and expensive about his hair and the style of his glasses.

“Would you mind telling the hearing about your most recent conversation?”

“Um, of course. We had just gone over,” Aziraphale’s mind had already been whirring at high gear, and he suddenly knew, with a mix of deep horror and surprising pride, exactly what The Them had done. “The intellectual history of individualism. Which necessarily and naturally also entails a discussion of collectivist, or communalist, philosophies and associated cultural traditions.”

They had written their paper _together_. That had to be it. Sandalphon was infamous for basing students’ entire grade on one big paper at the end of the semester, justified with some rot about university tradition but really to minimize the grading he had to do. Most students didn’t even look at feedback if the course was already over, after all, so why would he bother to write any?

“The students,” Aziraphale continued hastily when he saw Sandalphon open his irritating fish mouth, “were particularly interested in practical application of the collectivist and more communally-oriented philosophies from the past to our contemporary times. Quite exemplary in regard to Tenet Three of the University’s Academic Mission Statement, ‘To connect classroom learning to real world application,’ as I’m sure you all already know.”

It followed, of course, that The Them were refusing to admit they had done anything wrong. That was what had elevated the case to potential expulsion. They were probably baldly stating that they’d had do it again in the spring. He really was proud, if also tense in a way that made him want to laugh, cry, or throw up. Possibly all three at the same time.

“But this is _my_ class, in _Classics_ , not some ‘real world,’ new age learn-by-doing experiment for spoiled lazy millennials,” Sandalphon spat out. Aziraphale smiled placidly and exhaled, feeling his heartbeat finally slow. Sandalphon might have won over Gabriel and Enoch with that argument if this had stayed a departmental matter, but because he had pushed so hard for such a cruel punishment, there was now the rest of the panel to consider. These proceedings became part of official university record.

Aziraphale could give chapter and verse on both collectivist philosophy and the University mission in his sleep, while (ever so delicately) alluding to the importance of student retention in today’s uncertain and competitive higher education climate. I mean, really, _particularly_ crucial for liberal arts universities when the media kept banging the drum of STEM, STEM, STEM. One would not want, for instance, any sensation-hungry local—or, heavens forbid, national—journalists writing about how the university, officially on record, denied that there was any contemporary relevance for their exceedingly expensive classical liberal arts curriculum? Such an unpleasant business might go ‘bacterial,’ even, on the internet. No one wanted that.

* * *

Some thirty-odd minutes later, it hadn’t really required a miracle. Just entirely sincere belief in the importance and relevance of what he studied, fervent admiration for the students taking it so to heart, and stubborn pedantry in regard to university bureaucracy. Gabriel even seemed impressed. He patted Aziraphale on the shoulder as he left and said he’d email for some of his wording when he wrote the next department performance report. The Them agreed to discuss their “philosophical position on individualism and the structure of the institution of academia” with future professors _in advance_ of turning in any assignments. (Adam delightedly showed Aziraphale their handiwork after the hearing, a quite long and neatly typed paper with, bold as brass, “The Them” listed as author. He couldn’t help but giggle at the sheer audacity.) The hearing committee charged Sandalphon with assigning a fair grade to all four students based solely on the paper’s quality. Once he realized the wind was going against him, Sandalphon badgered them into stipulating something about a higher assessment bar, given that The Them had, in essence, four times as many resources to put into their work as the other students, but that was just sour grapes. Aziraphale advised a disappointed Brian and Adam not to hold their breath for a good mark (Pepper and Wensleydale seemed to already expect this and nodded along solemnly), but Sandalphon couldn’t possibly get away with failing The Them now. And no one, of course, was getting expelled. That was all that mattered.

Crowley poured his body down from the dais table as the room emptied. His opaque sunglasses were back on (more’s the pity) but the force of genuine warmth, relief, and triumph in his smile! For a moment, Aziraphale’s sense of the world narrowed to those full curving lips and the beating of his own heart. If Marjorie had been there, she might have commented that such feelings did not augur a good outcome for Plan: Let’s Be Friends, but she wasn’t. So there.

Adam, Brian, Wensleydale, and Pepper, however, most certainly were, and their collective victory hug rush took Aziraphale entirely by surprise. He lost his footing immediately and sprawled backwards onto the floor with an undignified yelp and the students not far behind, landing in a tangle of arms and legs he was quite glad would _not_ become part of the official university record and subject to possible conduct review. The Them had always been rather enthusiastic. Someone’s coat or bag smushed over Aziraphale’s face, but his blindly grasping hand was seized by a strong one that pulled him back up to his feet with ease. Thank goodness. The end-of-semester cleanliness of the floors was, well. Not very cleanly.

Aziraphale brushed assorted paperclips and floor detritus out of his hair and looked up to thank Crowley for, for everything, really, and to just wing his apology after all. Unfortunately for that plan, it transpired that the strong hand (still holding Aziraphale’s own rather tightly) was not actually attached to Crowley’s arm. Instead, the faculty member from probably-science-or-art-or-design, the handsome one who’d spoken up in the hearing, smiled at him from very close range. He kept on holding Aziraphale’s hand as he leaned in and brushed some more dust bunnies off the creamy tartan print of his jacket lapel. Good thing they did actually turn out to be dust, Aziraphale thought inwardly with a wince, and not stubborn old stains he was still working on. Given his own particular standards, Aziraphale had dressed comfortably for a quiet day alone in the office—not for delivering speeches in hearings. Definitely not for seeing Crowley again. Even if Crowley was completely out of his league romantically, the petty part of Aziraphale had still wanted to look dashing and suave in this moment. Ah well.

Crowley was firmly folding his arms in front of his chest with a scowl, no trace of their small shared smile left. It was possible that one of his arms had, quite recently, been extended (for instance out towards Aziraphale on the floor), but he now dared anyone to go ahead and even try to suggest such slander.

“Dr. Aziraphale Principality, was it?” The man finally let go of his hand but let one trailing finger caress down the length of Aziraphale’s palm and wrist as he did so. Was that? Intent? “I’m Dominic, one of the endowed chairs over in physics. And, to be completely honest, wildly inspired by your passion back there.” Aziraphale waved a speedy goodbye to his recently regained composure and blushed like a tomato. Dominic had dark brown hair, somehow dashingly windswept like an Italian sculpture even in the airless conference room.

“Oh, well, really the credit should go to Crowley,” he babbled and waved him over. For once, Crowley looked almost awkward as he stood alone in the middle of what was suddenly a very empty, very quiet room after The Them’s boisterous departure to celebratory ice cream. Crowley approached Aziraphale and Dominic warily, shiny black snakeskin dress shoes loud on an old wooden floor that had once been picturesque and was now lacquered within an inch of its life.

“Crowley was the one who told me that The Them—um, that’s what they call themselves and it just rather, well—that The Them were in a spot of bother in the first place.” Aziraphale couldn’t help the grin that slid over his face thinking about the whole affair. To be honest, he didn’t want to. “Gives you faith in the world again, right? Good students?”

“A privilege to know such young people indeed. I’m sure if anything could give Mr. Crowley faith in the world, it would be you and those Them,” Dominic said.

“Happy I could make the call,” Crowley replied. There was a small, awkward silence in which Crowley and Dominic stared at each other. They were technically both smiling but neither, to Aziraphale, looked particularly friendly.

“Well, don’t let us keep you, Mr. Crowley, I’m sure you’re very busy,” Dominic said, at the same time sliding his arm around Aziraphale’s back in a way that made his breath catch. Even he could not be mis-reading this. “They don’t let you out until five o’clock, do they? Always some assembly or other to plan.” Dominic shuddered in mock horror. Going on a date would show Crowley he really wasn’t going to get emotional and dramatic and expect too much from their friendship again. And Dominic's arm felt… Good. Solid, somehow. Comforting. He could use a spot of that. “There but for the grace of God we go, eh, Aziraphale? Now, I know it’s only afternoon,” and Aziraphale was walking without being consciously aware of deciding to do so, more focused on the delightful fingers that had started moving like they were slowly, absently playing the piano against the soft curve of his waist, “but how do some end-of-the-semester celebration drinks sound?”

“Ah, yes, that sounds quite, well,” Aziraphale said, shaking himself and trying and failing not to trip over his own tongue. “But I’m sure that Crowley could, um.” He stopped and turned backwards but saw Crowley already absorbed in his phone, scowling darkly and stabbing his finger at the screen like it had done him personal injury. His sunglasses, at least, met Aziraphale’s questioning gaze, but he just made a curt shooing gesture with his hand that morphed into a pantomime of—well, fine. Aziraphale had hoped they could start to mend fences, but if not, no reason to try and drag him somewhere he clearly did not want to go. “Drinks,” he said to Dominic, “sound brilliant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've officially lost my voice now with the flu and the coughing is scaring my dogs, but the upside is that at least I'm not teaching and have had a lot of time for writing. Comment and feed your pathetic, sick author?
> 
> If you're interested, Women's Work: The First Twenty Thousand Years is a real book (that you don't need a college affiliation to get hold of) and fascinating.


	6. Pineapple Ectoplasm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we've got some AU-typical classism (of a sort) and a veiled racist comment bound up with it. Just a heads up.
> 
> You thought I forgot about Hastur and Ligur, didn't you?

They ended up at Dante’s, a quite trendy bar across the street from the university. It was exactly the kind of place that you were supposed to go on dates, and exactly the kind of place Aziraphale, when he was being honest with himself, utterly despised. Blaring music too loud to talk and too repetitive to enjoy for its own sake, nasty smoke insinuating itself into his hair and all of his fabrics, and, worst of all, the inevitably minimal, subpar, dreadfully expensive food. And if he’d fretted about not being appropriately dressed to speak at a disciplinary hearing, well. This took not fitting in to the level of an Olympic sport. They had stopped by his office to replace his sodden slippers with the pair of emergency smart shoes (sky blue brogues, quite daring) that he kept handy in the file cabinet’s third drawer, but still. Dominic gently took the hand that was worrying at the loose button on his waistcoat and kissed it softly.

“Just tell anyone who asks that you were in a play,” he said and chuckled musically. “Honestly it’s more believable than the alternative.”

Alternative? Most of Aziraphale’s mind was quite busy (thank you very much) wallowing in the warm, delicious sensation of lips on his skin, but a small part snagged on the phrase. Admittedly, there were usually no darned holes, frayed seams, or lingering ghosts of wine and tea stains about his person, but he had the sense that was not what Dominic meant.

They wound their way over to the bar, where the relatively early hour meant he and Dominic could at least commandeer stools. Aziraphale was not looking forward to what the club would be like when it did pass five o’clock and all of the surrounding offices released their inhabitants into the wild. At least if they held their position, he’d only be surrounded on the three sides. “What’ll it be for the hero of the day?” Dominic half-yelled to him, snapping his fingers at the bartender.

“Ah, ice tea to start, I think,” Aziraphale yelled back. He needed a few minutes to get a fix on just how …hip the wine selection would be before he could commit to anything. It had been a very, very stressful last hour or two, and his constitution could only handle so many shocks. “Right,” Dominic leaned in to shout at the bartender, “Long Island ice tea for angel face here, and a Jack on the rocks.”

“Oh no, ah, hah, I meant tea, just—just tea.”

“Don’t worry, Aziraphale, it’s on me, of course,” Dominic said and poked his waist playfully. “This is your moment of triumph, and no more classes to teach! Celebrate!”

“Um, well, okay, I suppose,” Aziraphale said. It wasn’t like he hadn’t planned on drinking, just. Dominic tilted his head, like he was waiting for something. “Um. Thank you?”

He turned Aziraphale’s hand over and kissed the palm, dragging his mouth across its length just so, and winked before turning to scan the room. Be still my heart, Aziraphale thought dazedly, and lead me not into cardiac arrest. That tended to, as they say, kill the mood. It was worth it, coming to this place, for such touching. And nothing to say one couldn’t go from drinks to dinner. The night was barely in its toddlerhood, after all.

When his drink came, Aziraphale looked at it without strong enthusiasm. But sipping at it would at least give him something to do. The club’s name and minimalist ring-themed decor were obviously in reference to the _Inferno_ , which Dominic, the physicist, had for some inexplicable reason begun telling Aziraphale, the classicist, about at great length. He could only make out about one word in four, but judging by what he did hear it was no great loss, and Dominic seemed to require very minimal replies. Aziraphale took a cautious sip of the concoction (through an admittedly adorable yellow and green striped straw) and was pleasantly surprised to discover it was, indisputably, just plain iced tea dressed up in all the elaborate cocktail trappings. The bartender, a pretty young black woman whose luxuriant corkscrew curls framed her face like a halo, winked at him. Aziraphale smiled gratefully and took another sip. He could do this.

You _wanted_ to go on a date, Aziraphale’s mind reminded him, in a voice that sounded rather like …ugh, like Gabriel, of all people. Possibly the last voice that he wanted to—oh dear lord no. That was not a rewarding tangent. He owed it to Dominic (and the ghost of love life future) to at least try and enjoy himself.

“Dominic,” Aziraphale said, as the really quite handsome man stopped (incorrectly) explaining Hell’s punishment for gluttony long enough to take a drink, “I don’t suppose, somewhere in these nine circles of Hell, there might be such a thing as a wine list?” His answering grin was positively magnetic, and Aziraphale felt his own face inevitably fall into sync. This was nice. He wouldn’t waste this.

After an hour and a quarter had passed, Aziraphale judged it had been long enough that he could plausibly need to use the washroom. A few of Dominic’s friends, all queer faculty from different departments, had joined them, so he was well enough occupied that Aziraphale could take a break for a few minutes. Unfortunately, true to his earlier prediction, Dante’s was now packed. He sighed internally as he found the end of the bathroom line. With so many people waiting, he’d feel guilty about taking more than a minute. That would have to do. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, fully prepared to defend his place in the queue and possibly deliver a scorching lecture on the importance of the club’s gender-neutral bathrooms, but it was the bartender from earlier smiling at him.

“I stuck with Art History,” she said, or at least he thought she did. It was quieter by the bathrooms but significantly more noise still bounced around than Aziraphale’s ears were used to handling.

“Pardon?” He asked. She looked a little embarrassed.

“Uh, sorry, um. I guess you wouldn’t really remember, would you. Forget it, it’s fine.” She turned around, but Aziraphale gestured frantically for her to continue.

“Ah, well, I hostess at the University Club, too, and a while back, you—“

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up as the memory of the young woman Crowley had been “keeping on her toes” before The Lunch crystallized. “Yes, of course I remember, I’m deeply sorry. My dear girl, that is wonderful! I’m so glad to hear it. We lose so much if we spend all our time worrying about the practicalities of life and forget to actually live.” So says the man avoiding his staggeringly attractive and intelligent date by pretending to answer the call of nature, Aziraphale thought and sighed at himself.

“Yeah.” She smiled. “Decided to do an entrepreneurship certificate thing too though. It’s not that many more credits, and If I’m going to open up my own gallery after I graduate, makes sense to actually know something about, like, business, right?” She laughed. “So far the best advice any of my art history profs had was ‘move to New York and borrow seed money from your parents.’” She rolled her eyes. “Like, ‘oh yeah, why didn’t I think of that, silly me working three jobs and taking classes at the same time because my parents have a spare quarter mill hanging around. Thanks for the advice, super helpful!’”

Aziraphale winced in sympathy. He had loved his parents dearly, but they hadn’t really understood him going to college and only grudgingly accepted him going to graduate school. Academia just didn’t figure into their world. They still loved him, obviously, but. It wasn’t like they had been well off either. It just made things awkward when his program assumed any gaps in their funding packages (summer came to mind) would be covered by his parents like the other students’ typically were.

“Mmm, yes. I’m afraid some of my colleagues can be rather,” Aziraphale searched for the tactful word, “…idealistic.”

“Presumptuous rich jerks,” she said at the same time. They both laughed. Aziraphale decidedly did not think about the conversation he had just left, where Dominic’s friend Marc had been arguing that there was no point in even trying to be gay in the country, everyone should just move to cities immediately, preferably San Francisco.

“Eve,” she said.

“Oh! I’m, ah, well. I’m Aziraphale.” She raised her eyebrows but spared him further comment, earning her his eternal love after he’d suffered through being introduced more times in the past hour than in the past month. It really was true that you couldn’t surprise someone with a joke about their own name, but it never stopped people trying.

Abruptly, Eve’s expression firmed into one of determination. “Look, it’s none of my business, but you’re trading down.” Aziraphale gaped, feeling shock writ large across his face.

“Pardon?”

“Come on, it’s been open for years, go already!” someone shouted from the line behind them, not for the first time, and Aziraphale suddenly realized they were yelling at him. He bustled to the bathroom door, but when he looked back Eve tapped a finger to her temple. _Think about it._

When Aziraphale got back to the bar, Dominic had a face like he’d drunk rancid milk, and the group were all peering at something on his phone or slapping him on the back with expressions displaying varying amounts of fascinated schadenfreude. A horrifying vision of Crowley, stabbing at his own phone earlier in the hearing room, flashed into a mortified Aziraphale’s brain.

“Ah, computer trouble?” he asked weakly, knowing he was right even before Dominic nodded and rolled his eyes. Why? Why would he do that? “At my lab.” His friend Jason gleefully turned the phone to Aziraphale. It featured a dark shot of scorched and smoking computer servers half blanketed in the whitish chalk of chemical fire extinguisher spray.

“Oh dear, that looks quite, ah, goodness gracious.”

“Like something out of the electrical engineering x-files is what it looks like, so no doubt our friend Crowley from earlier is at it again. Asshole.”

“Language!”

“Show him the one where the flames were purple!” Ash cried. Newt must have really outdone himself, Aziraphale reflected grimly.

“Do you need to go back right away?” he asked, trying not to let too much hope bleed through into his tone. He’d thought he’d be trapped here for another hour at least, or that Dominic might try and persuade him to “hop” to another bar since the dinner hour had rather come and gone.

“What, and miss out on being here with you?” Dominic smiled at Aziraphale. He flushed a little, out of reflex, but it was getting almost more annoying than flattering. Dominic kept saying all these sweet things, but he strongly doubted the man had heard a word he’d said all night. Aziraphale had given up on developing “mutual shared knowledge” a few glasses ago as a lost cause. He could look at the evening as “gaining dating experience” and arrange for a calmer second rendezvous.

“It might be quite serious trouble,” Aziraphale said. “Even beyond the, um. Fire. The whole network in my building went down earlier in the term, almost lost all of our electronic gradebooks. Utter fiasco.”

“Nah, it’s fine. My research data is backed up at home, and for the rest,” Dominic shrugged. “That’s what staff and graduate students are for, right?”

“Just a jealous douche anyway,” Marc said.

“Don’t feed the trolls,” Jason recited theatrically and everyone laughed. Aziraphale felt suddenly cold, even though the bar had only gotten more sweltering (which he would not have previously believed possible, maybe there was something to the _Inferno_ reference after all) over the course of the evening.

“What?” he asked.

“It’s an internet thing,” Jason said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No—you said Crowley was …jealous?” The concept was so bizarre that he was sure he’d missed something.

“Oh, he must not have told you,” Dominic said, with a certain cooing relish and predatory smile. “Dropped out of graduate school.”

“And doesn’t have the balls to just be out already, like everyone doesn’t know. Goes by ‘Tony’ on the scene, like that’s fooling anyone,” Marc said with a smirk.

“Hey, don’t blame him for that,” Ash put in with a wince. “You ever had to deal with the VP Hastur? Or Ligur? They’re why we don’t have a Sex Week like the Ivies. Fucking ‘family values’ and Bible quotes in their email sigs. As if the frats don’t pass out hookup bingo cards every year.”

“That does suck, granted,” Dominic said with the magnanimous air of someone giving a grand concession. “But the university has a non-discrimination policy, so it’s not like Hastur could just up and fire him for it with no other reason. We’re all here and out and proud and employed, aren’t we?”

“Well. It’s not always… that black and white, I don’t think,” Aziraphale said slowly, brain screaming as he processed this new information. “Working as faculty and working as admin or staff, things are different. I mean, and with families too, sometimes. Especially being Indian, he might--”

“Yeah, and that’s why we’re in America,” Dominic said with a laugh. “I mean, things suck, here too, obviously, no question about that, we are in the end times, but come on, it’s the new millennium! Change isn’t going to come unless we push and to push we have to be brave. Just like you today, angel face.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“And I’m talking about POETRY,” Marc said, sniggering and apparently still on about Crowley’s graduate school. “So now he just tries to make life difficult for us, who made it, because he couldn’t hack academia.” Marc gestured with the expansive majesty of the drunk who believe they have made an indisputable point. “Jealous.” Ash looked uncomfortable but no one in the little circle said anything.

“That,” Aziraphale said, “is utterly outrageous. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Everyone looked at him. All the sound pollution of the bar had just become white noise in Aziraphale’s head. He was the center of a small cone of silence and slow time.

“You’re among friends here, angel face,” Dominic said after an awkward pause, and then had the utter unbelievable inexcusable gall to reach over and ruffle his hair. “No need to be PC. Not everyone’s cut out for the meritocracy.”

Aziraphale’s fist clenched, and he discovered there was a cocktail in it. He didn’t remember ordering that. No matter. He threw the entire sloppy mess into Dominic’s perfect symmetrical stupid face and slammed the glass back down.

“What the everloving fuck, Aziraphale?!” Dominic shouted at him, and Aziraphale (already several steps toward the door in a little bubble of fury as the crowd suddenly seemed disinclined to get in his way) turned. “You—Jesus, this is going to take forever—think you’d be just a little fucking grateful!”

“Dominic,” Aziraphale said, pronouncing each syllable precisely. “Go fuck yourself.”

* * *

**From:** [e.eden-appleton@uni.edu](mailto:e.eden-appleton@uni.edu)

 **To:** [a.principality@uni.edu](mailto:a.principality@uni.edu)

**Subject: THANK YOU**

**Message body:**

Hi Aziraphale,

Found your email online (there’s no one else with your name) hope you don’t mind. we’ve been waiting for someone t do that to Physics Douche for SO LONG omg you have no idea, it was perfect. Your welcome for the drink ;) called pineapple ectoplasm. Adam and Lily got pics & thought you might want one

<3

Eve

_~~Eve on the go~~_

**Attachment** : IMG_0690.JPG, IMG_1666.JPG

Aziraphale didn’t usually check email on his phone, but this was something of a special occasion, and it wasn’t as though the Lyft driver would mind. Now that he was out of the club, his heart was beating very fast and he needed something to do with his hands. He tapped one finger carefully on the screen to open the images. Oh my. The “Pineapple Ectoplasm” cocktail turned out to have been a very syrupy green and yellow drink indeed, complete with pineapple chunks (one of which they’d caught hitting Dominic smack in his left eye) and a shrapnel spray of so many coconut shavings that Aziraphale had no idea how the drink had managed to be liquid in the first place. The second picture seemed taken a breath later and captured an expression of shocked rage dripping with goo that looked remarkably like snot, if snot could be polka-dotted with coconut. It might, in Aziraphale’s personal accounting, actually outrank Michael’s expression when Shadwell had told him that his meticulous three-hundred some entry gradebooks were gone to only Satan below knew where.

Eve must have ducked off into the bathroom immediately to email him. She really was such a dear girl, he was so glad she decided to follow her heart. In a sensible fashion. He hit reply and attempted to type carefully even though his hand was shaking a bit. He’d been getting better at the “predictive text” feature, though Aziraphale had always found it rather mis-named. It never could predict the text he was trying to compose.

**From:** [a.principality@uni.edu](mailto:a.principality@uni.edu)

 **To:** [e.eden-appleton@uni.edu](mailto:e.eden-appleton@uni.edu)

**Subject: RE: THANK YOU**

**Message body:**

Dear Eve,

Of course I’m delighted that you emailed me. Thank you for sending the pictures, that was very thoughtful and, indeed, greatly appreciated. I hope you and your friends don’t get into any trouble with your work for taking them. Please feel free to pass any blame for the incident entirely onto my shoulders.

Good luck with the gallery and hope to meet again in future,

Aziraphale

_This message has been sent from my cellular phone. I apologize greatly, but please do excuse any errors in grammar or spelling as stemming from the limitations of technology and not from disregard to the importance of our communication._

Aziraphale felt like a live wire. He was simultaneously utterly exhausted and intensely keyed up. He just couldn’t believe they could say such vicious—but then again, with a deep weariness, he could. He really, really could.

What made Aziraphale truly sick was how _he_ could have been so thoughtless as to not even consider the possibility. Crowley had been taking a risk just having lunch on campus with, well, with someone like Aziraphale. No wonder he preferred text messaging to the university email. And Aziraphale still didn’t really know anything about it. It wasn’t like he could trust the word of those …individuals. And here he was, making this all about himself again. He just wanted to—just needed to talk to Crowley.

Aziraphale’s phone buzzed.

**Lyle Golightly** : GIIIIIIIIIIIIIRL

 **Aziraphale** : Hi, Lyle.

 **Lyle Golightly** : YOU HAVE BEEN BUSY

 **Lyle Golightly** : just popped some champagne with Tracy to celebrate our bloody genius as life coaches

 **Anathema Device** : Did you really swear at someone in public?

 **Lyle Golightly** : going to start charging

 **Anathema Device** : And throw a drink in the guys face

 **Anathema Device** : or have I entered a parallel dimension

 **Lyle Golightly** : where r you?

 **Lyle Golightly** : Come to me, dahling!!!

 **Anathema Device** : would guess demonic possession except he sounded like a real asshat who deserved it.

 **Lyle Golightly** : DEETS

 **Anathema Device** : I mean of course he deserved it, you’re the nicest guy ever like in the world

 **Aziraphale** : Anathema, how did you hear about this? So fast?

 **Anathema Device** : did he brutally murder a puppy in the middle of the bar? Steal candy from a baby with a tragic chronic illness?

 **Lyle Golightly** : DEETS

 **Lyle Golightly** : DEETS

 **Anathema Device** : (see img file attached)

 **Lyle Golightly** : DEETS

 **Aziraphale** : Anathema, are you… out on a double date with Newt and Yao and Li, from the rescue squad?

 **Lyle Golightly** : DEETS

 **Marjorie Potts** : dear, if you don’t start replying to Lyle I am not going to be responsible for the consequences.

 **Marjorie Potts** : very proud of you, of course

 **Aziraphale** : Lyle, you have to give me time between messages to reply.

 **Anathema Device** : FOCUS, AZIRAPHALE

 **Lyle Golightly** : just get over here already! Come to the booze, mate!

 **Anathema Device** : That is of NO CONSEQUENCE to this situation

 **Lyle Golightly** : u know u owe ur life coaches!!!!!!!11

 **Anthony J. Crowley** : Angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeling significantly better! Your comments are magical!


	7. A Flaming Shitload More Direct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the end! Been really enjoying this ride with you folks, thank you so, so much for your comments and thoughts. 
> 
> ETA: Some explicit stuff (of a kind) winds its way in here, so, um, there's a heads up. If you want to skip it, you can pretty much go from the beginning of Aziraphale's dream to a few sentences after the scene cut.

When he heard the nightingale chirrup and saw Crowley’s contact flash up on the screen, Aziraphale promptly dropped the phone. It keep beeping and booping and buzzing from the dark nether regions under the driver’s seat, as everyone he even vaguely knew seemed to be trying to have a conversation with him all at once, but he didn’t hear any more of the nightingale’s song. This was a private conversation, in any case, one that Aziraphale did not intend to have in the back of a Lyft. (no matter how highly the driver was starred)

When he finally got home, Aziraphale gave the cell phone up as a bad job that could stay in the corner until it was ready to be quiet. He walked over to the kitchen counter and carefully dialed Crowley’s number on the landline. Like his office phone, Aziraphale liked the kitchen landline. It was extremely old-fashioned; it still had a long curly beige cord attaching it to the receiver mounted on the wall. The chief advantage of this was that the cord made it very difficult to lose among (for example) piles of student papers, books, and laundry in various states of rumple. It was why he had rented this apartment. Well. Besides the main reason, of course. The phone rang once, twice, three times, and Aziraphale was desperately sure he had overstepped the bounds, he should have just text messaged him back like a normal modern—

“Hello, this is A.J. Crowley.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said and stopped for a shaky breath. “Hi.”

“Uh, hi yourself, angel,” Crowley paused. “This isn’t your number.”

“I’m calling you on my apartment landline. The cell phone is, well. Rather active at present.” Crowley laughed.

“The technical term is ‘blowing up.’ I imagine the entire queer, allied, university-affiliated, and university-adjacent population of the state is ‘blowing up’ your phone right now.”

“Oh. Um, I’m sure not quite that many people have my number,” Aziraphale said, wondering how to start this. “Crowley, I can’t begin to—“

“So I hear you defended my honor?” his voice was rich with amusement, but all Aziraphale could hear in it was his smile that first muggy day they’d really had a conversation, when they’d shared his umbrella. “If my sources are to be believed, with a very disgusting pineapple cocktail and absolutely shocking language?”

“Ah, well, I suppose that would be one way to, um. Describe it.” Aziraphale coughed. “I was…quite cross.”

“I see,” Crowley purred. “You do know that’s ridiculously sexy, angel?” Aziraphale felt his mouth go dry for at least the fifth time that day. He was very tired and still on edge, and he was, okay, alright, feeling rather grandiosely heroic and dramatic and like he might be the _lead_ in a film and not just the comic relief character part, because today had been quite, quite a day.

“Well, you’re a ridiculously sexy man,” Aziraphale said. An instant later, his brain caught up and processed what had come out of his mouth, and he choked violently.

“Aziraphale? Aziraphale! Stay with me. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.” Crowley sounded alarmed. Perfect, Aziraphale thought, as he endeavored to steady himself. Just the reaction one desired to inspire. After a few minutes, his breathing finally evened out to a reasonable level of calm. Given the circumstances.

“Um, I am sorry, ah.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, angel. Really—really the opposite. I _would_ say I think you know that, but,” Crowley laughed drily and without much humor, “I think we need to be a flaming shitload more direct with each other.”

“Language!”

“Really? Really, right now?”

“I—ah—it’s habit. Ingrained, you see. I’m—“

“--I swear, if you apologize, I’m going to hang up this phone.” Aziraphale’s mouth shut with a snap. Crowley waited. “Good. Aziraphale Principality, I would love to take you to dinner. On a date. Of a romantic nature. During which we discuss nothing to do with our respective jobs, at an undisclosed but very tasteful location far away from this godsdamned university, and at the conclusion of which,” his voice deepened and richened, and Aziraphale unconsciously licked his lips as he leant into the receiver. “I believe it is traditional for the victorious knight to claim the forfeit of a kiss from his lady.”

“At the, ah, the conclusion?”

“Eager, are we?”

Aziraphale thought of Crowley. His angular face, sculpted like dark sandstone cliffs meeting an ocean. All dramatic lines and sharp places but also constantly changing, moving, alive, and beautiful in a subtly different way at each different hour, in each different kind of light. How he’d desperately sought Aziraphale out, even after everything, when his students needed him. The utterly absurd counterfactual with the dolphins that he’d defended to the last when they were arguing over meta-ethics. The mischievous golden eyes that sparkled in his dreams and derailed his trains of waking thought even after he’d told himself quite firmly that this had been more than enough of that by now, thank you, move on, pip pip. His lips that—

“Very,” he said. Crowley made a soft sound, and Aziraphale thought there might be something to Anathema’s web camera video call fixation after all.

“Ooookay. I mean, not okay like just okay or haha okay, I mean okay like—yes. Good.” Aziraphale could definitely have done with seeing what the ever cool, collected, charming Crowley looked like when flustered. _He_ had done that. Him, Aziraphale. “Free tomorrow tonight, say I pick you up at 6:15?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said instantly. And if he wasn’t, he would be. “But Crowley, please, before we ring off, I really do have to apologize for, for my cruel and thoughtless behavior. Before. I had no idea about the kind of pressure you’re—but I do know the horrifyingly everyday of it all. I should have considered or thought or asked or, or something. And not lost my head when I saw you at Lyle’s.” The line was quiet for a few breaths. Aziraphale was equal parts relieved to have finally been able to just say it and cursing himself for not only strangling the mood but then repeatedly bashing it over the head with a rock, immediately after they’d at last gotten on the same (very promising) page.

“I accept your apology, angel. I’m not going to say I’m sorry for what I did, because I’m not. But I didn’t exactly walk up to you, either, and say ‘oh hi, I’m Anthony J. Crowley, and I’ve got one foot in the closet.’” He sighed. “It’s a complicated situation. Like it always is. And I _am_ sorry that it—that I hurt you.”

They were both quiet again.

“Uh, I. Well. Thank you. I guess that’s, ah, good night, see you tomorrow evening?” Aziraphale ventured, cringing. Crowley snorted.

“Um, no, angel. Waaaaay too depressing a note to end on,” he said. “Let me quote at you a little instead?”

“Please do!” Aziraphale said with feeling. That personal, impromptu readings might be an advantage to dating someone who knew poetry was a joy that he had never previously considered. Mostly he counted himself fortunate if people were vaguely aware when he himself was quoting something. Crowley cleared his throat.

“Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire

From passionate pain to deadlier delight,

—I am too young to live without desire.

Too young art thou to waste this summer night.”

Aziraphale shivered a little. He'd know Oscar Wilde anywhere. “It’s winter right now and everything, but still. Like that one. Fits. Night, Aziraphale.”

“Sleep well, my dear Crowley.”

* * *

Lyle could not be put off forever, of course, even if Aziraphale had looked at a display notification of 72 missed text messages on his cell phone and thought that he’d really rather take a shower. His clothes were probably going to need to be burnt, (they smelled like they were halfway there already) which constituted a grave loss to the “comfortable but still respectable enough from a distance that you can leave the apartment and sit in the back of a guest lecture maybe” section of his wardrobe.

He had the foresight to hold the phone well away from his ear after dialing Marjorie’s number. When Lyle finished screeching down the line, Aziraphale told him that he’d only just rung off with Crowley and now had a date for the following evening. That, he was informed at an only slightly lower decibel level, was the only excuse that could possibly be even marginally acceptable for so cruelly leaving him hanging for such a torturously long time, but that its acceptability was contingent on Aziraphale allowing him to curate his date wardrobe.

“No.”

“But!”

“No.”

“Don’t you remember when I—“

“In excruciating detail. Thus: no.”

“Come on, mate!”

They bargained down to meeting at Aziraphale’s apartment the next morning, first thing, so he could tell Lyle the entire story in detail and allow him to definitively ixnay up to seven articles of clothing. Lyle’s idea of “first thing” under these circumstances was roughly 11:00, so Aziraphale felt comfortable he’d actually be awake by the time he had to defend his sartorial acumen. Now that all of the adrenaline was well and truly gone, his eyes were starting to droop closed of their own accord.

“Marjorie says she’s coming too, because we’re using her phone.”

“Of course, of course. Group brunch. Good nigh—oh, if you’ll want to eat anything with protein, best to bring it. I think all I’ve got in is marble loaf and leftover raspberry cheesecake.”

“Carbs are a girl’s best friend.”

“Indeed. Now do kindly go away now, because I am going to be very cranky with you in the morning if I fall asleep in the shower.”

“I’m sure _soooooomeone_ could help you wash—“

“Good night, Lyle,” Aziraphale said and hung up.

After what was indeed a deeply restorative shower, Aziraphale fell gratefully into the cocoon of soft Ikea duvet, assorted pillows, and fleece blankets nabbed from long airplane flights and graduate school friends whose children had grown out of them that served as his bed. An enterprising interior decorator might have called it a “decadent sleep nest” and charged through the roof for such daring conceptual design, but in truth Aziraphale just tended to spread out across any horizontal surface that stayed put long enough. He fully expected to sleep like the dead through into the morning, but when he opened his eyes next, he knew he was dreaming.

He knew this because he was gazing down at an utterly naked Crowley sprawled out under his thighs and smiling up at him. (Aziraphale, when he more or less consciously daydreamed about such things, spent quite a lot of time dwelling on the undressing stage—especially from those _suits_ —but his subconscious had rather had it up to here with teasing by now, thank you very much.) The vision—and he _was_ a vision—didn’t really require much imagination on his part, either, after that positively indecent tank top.

“Angel, please,” Crowley said, “I’ve been wanting you for so long.”

“Is that so?” he replied. Crowley pumped his eyebrows and rolled his body sinuously, as though to flip them. Aziraphale dove forward and captured his wrists, pinning each down to either side on the duvet and taking away his leverage. Their lips were close enough to share breath. “Naughty man. Tell me what you want. I want to hear you say it.”

Crowley whimpered. His cock already felt rock hard to Aziraphale where it was trapped between their bodies. Enfolded in the softness of his stomach, there would be just enough friction to make him really want more. “Take me, Aziraphale, please—I want you. To. Fuck. Me.”

“Well done,” Aziraphale said softly and approvingly, flushing with pleasure. He crawled backwards and re-positioned to line himself up. He and Dream Crowley had apparently already taken care of preparation; his hole was glistening wet and open. “I can do that for you, my dear.”

Aziraphale moved forward minutely but steadily, until his full length was in and held so tightly by Crowley’s body that he thought he might never be able to leave. Oh well, we each have our crosses to bear. Aziraphale waited, absolutely stock still, to give them both time to adjust. Well, and because he was a little bit of a bastard, if he was being honest with himself (though he tried not to be). Crowley eventually started wriggling, but Aziraphale lightly slapped the inside of his thigh.

“God, fuck, god, please move—“

“Blasphemous.” He thrust forward once, sharply, and Crowley keened. Aziraphale stilled again. Crowley leaned his head up off the pillows to look directly at him, amber eyes wide and desperate.

“Unh?”

“What do you want?”

“Nnnnrgh—Aziraphale, I want you!”

Aziraphale let go, in exactly the way that he never let himself. He surged forward, and Crowley fell into his rhythm with a moan, pushing back with his hips to meet him each time. The flimsy headboard was shaking, knocking loudly against the wall marking time. Crowley was shouting in ecstasy, screaming his name.

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale! AZIRAPHALE!”

* * *

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale! AZIRAPHALE! Open the bloody door already!” Lyle yelled, from outside the apartment, banging on said front door. “In count of five we’re using that key you gave us!”

Aziraphale gasped, and he was coming, coming hard, coming everywhere, and coming suddenly wide-awake to the stomach-dropping noise of someone fumbling a key around a lock.

“Ah-Awake! AWAKE! I’m awake! Wait! WAIT!”

“Then open the fuck up! It’s bloody cold out here!”

“Yes! Ah—apologies! Coming! (ha…) Just—Just a moment!” Aziraphale blinked rapidly and shook himself, still breathing very hard. Good Lord, that hadn’t happened in. In some time. And never quite like, quite like that. That had been. Vivid. He looked down at himself. His pajamas were an utter mess. The throw pillow that has somehow wound up between his legs was a total loss. The sheets were-- 

“Ready or not, pillow princess!” Aziraphale half leapt, half rolled out of his bed, for once not tripping on the blanket that inevitably tried to tangle between his legs and snag him, and sprinted to the bedroom door. He slammed it shut even as he heard the apartment door open. Thank God he had a one-bedroom instead of a studio, and thank all his angels that the bathroom was ensuite. Aziraphale half jogged, half hopped to the bathroom as he extricated himself from the pajamas, cleaned off the worst of the mess, and darted back into the bedroom. The adjoining door with the main room did _not_ have a lock, so speed was of the essence. He dumped all of the dirty things onto the bed, where the sheets would need to be stripped and washed anyway, and threw on the first vaguely pajama-like thing he found in the clean laundry pile. He took two deep, calming breaths to steady himself, counting to four each time on the exhale, and walked out to meet Marjorie and Lyle.

The first thing he noticed was that they had brought a massive brunch spread that smelled utterly divine. Meats, cheeses, eggs, three different kinds of pastries, fruits, even bagels and lox. Was that a box of orange juice? Bless them. The second thing he noticed was that Marjorie and Lyle were not the only people in his apartment.

“Anathema, oh! Um. Hello there, dear.” She grinned at him, utterly shameless.

“Marjorie told me there was a group brunch on, and Newt obviously needs accurate intelligence on his boss’s likely mental state for the next week, so thought we’d just come over and save you telling the same story twice.”

“Oh, is Newt here als--ah, indeed, there you are. Good morning.” Aziraphale felt a little manic as he took in the whole room. “And, ah, Bill as well, and my heavens. Um. Yao, Cheryl, Uehara, welcome, good morning, please, uh, make yourselves at home. I’m so sorry I was such a, ah, tardy host and left you outside.”

“I think,” Uehara said, with a soft Japanese accent and a theatrical air of deep consideration, “since I am sitting in your apartment to hear a story about your date, that you should call me Kuniko.”

“Oh, well! Thank you, um, Kuniko, that’s very kind of you.”

“And because you are wearing pajamas with moose in Christmas hats on them.”

Aziraphale looked down at himself and gasped, which was apparently exceedingly amusing to everyone else present. “I—I thought it would be just—“

“Of course, dear,” Marjorie soothed.

“I bought them at a conference! In, in Toronto! Canadian—Canada—moose.”

“Stylish,” Anathema said, flashing him a thumbs-up. He really might move her prospectus due date up a week or two. She obviously needed something else to focus on.

“That reminds me, Aziraphale, dahling, why have you been hiding this beautiful, intelligent, incredible woman away from me?” Lyle asked, draping himself around Anathema’s shoulders like a feather boa. Newt waved his hands around with weird jerks, like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene or not, but Anathema rolled her eyes and signaled him that she was fine. “We’ve been getting on ab-so-lute-ly famously.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Sit, dear,” Marjorie said and pulled out a chair for him. (at his own kitchen table!) He dropped into it heavily, looking wild-eyed around the small kitchen and living room, just in case something else utterly terrifying was going to pop out of the woodwork and say boo. “Food will do you good.”

“I—I—I,” Aziraphale said, stuttering as his utterly overwhelmed brain declared this entire situation a lost cause and retreated back to basics. “I—I’m afraid I don’t have enough chairs for everyone. Dreadfully—dreadfully sorry.”

They let him fortify himself with a large mug of strong tea and a chocolate-covered almond croissant before he was rather forcefully compelled to begin story time. Anathema was appalled that The Them had come so close to disaster, though not surprised at all by Sandalphon. (“Still makes graduate students—graduate students, mind you!—print out our papers _in triplicate_ so we don’t email him ‘corrupted files’ to get an extra few days to work past the deadline, when you just know he's just going to write something like 'fine' or 'okay' on it?”) The rescue squad contingent all shook their heads with varying degrees of disgust when Aziraphale first mentioned Dominic, especially Yao as their graduate student representative. (“I roleplay with some of the poor suckers in his lab. Total bastard. Our rogue got hit by a car while riding his bike to campus, and the only thing Dominic said to him was to ask whether he could still take notes for the lab meeting that afternoon—from his actual hospital bed!—over Zoom?”) The pictures Eve’s friends had taken were much, much admired and, despite Aziraphale’s half-hearted protest that they’d been sent to him in confidence, swiftly duplicated or copied or uploaded or whathaveyou and sent into wider distribution. (“This angle is perfect! None of the videos came out nearly so well!” “Videos?!” “Oh, no, no, don’t worry about it, Aziraphale. Of course there weren't any videos. Forget I said anything.”) He staunchly refused to repeat the conversation that ended the evening. (“All I am prepared to say on the matter is that it was _utterly_ unforgivable.”)

It turned out that Cheryl and Yao had been the only ones of the rescue squad who’d already known that Crowley wasn’t straight and that he strongly preferred people not to mention that fact on campus, under threat of something vague but even more dire than a visit from Newt. As Lyle started to make inquiring noises about the state of Aziraphale’s laundry, all four of the techies turned to Aziraphale with suddenly serious faces. Bill, as most senior faculty present (six years past retirement), had apparently been made leader.

“A-ezra-fell,” Bill said (not bad for a first try), “you seem like a really nice guy. So that’s good. And thanks to your friends here for breakfast. But, we wanted you to know that we’re all very, um. Gotten to be big fans of Crowley over the years. Not everybody on campus gets his sense of humor or respects him like they should. Hastur makes his life difficult enough even without any,” he gestured vaguely, seemingly lost for words, and everyone at the table under fifty exchanged a covert look to brace themselves, “gay stuff. I think. Earlier this year, when you two had your argument or whatever it was, he was very upset.”

“It was scary,” Newt put in. “He was scary. Even though he slept late a lot and sometimes told me to go home early.”

“Exactly,” Bill continued, pushing his gold-rimmed aviator-style glasses firmly back up to the bridge of his nose. “So, that is to say. You better make sure to treat him right, from now on.”

“We will know,” Ueha--Kuniko said, with a significant glance at Newt, who nodded solemnly, “if you break his heart.”

“And in that case,” Cheryl said in a chilly voice that promised swiftly falling blue screens of death and eternally swirling beach balls, “you had best plan on never using anything with a microprocessor, ever again. You hear what we’re saying to you?”

Lyle, Anathema, and Marjorie looked somewhat taken aback, shading into indignant, but Aziraphale reached across the table and shook Bill’s hand very firmly. Then he couldn’t take it anymore and bounced up to give each of them, in turn, his most effusively joyful hug. After Aziraphale drank another mug of tea to compose himself and Bill got over the shock of being spontaneously hugged, Yao cleared his throat.

“On the positive side, if you, um, somehow get him into a really good mood sometime before January 11th, do you think you could ask if he’d let Newt work half-time with us next year? Li, Mohammed, and I are applying for dissertation grants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering (probably not, but still) Yao goes by his last name because he finds native English speakers' pronunciations of it easier to deal with than his first name, Jianguo. Li was just astonished to find there are actually, for the first time ever, no other Li's in his cohort and is living it up as the only one. During the brunch, Li and Mohammed are helping with the damage to Dominic's lab as a favor to his graduate students.
> 
> Also, for all the lovely people with experience in academia, guess which of those Sandalphon/Dominic horror stories is truth in fanfiction? OH WAIT TRICK QUESTION. Sigh.


	8. Looking Forward to Showing You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for some more body issues (though they all turn out okay). Apparently I needed to write through some more feels. Apologies for this chapter update taking forever--it's been re-written more times than I can count, but we're finally at a good place, I think.

Really, the less said about the drive to the restaurant, the better.

Aziraphale had initially been impressed when Crowley pulled up in such a sleekly gorgeous, obviously lovingly restored classic… something. Benoit? Bradley? He’d look it up later. Definitely a B-name. It was old, and it was beautiful. Crowley clearly loved it, and that made Aziraphale love him even a little bit more. Crowley himself was also rather impressive. He’d dressed somewhere between both the Assistant Vice President of Student Services and Tony, wearing a dark graphite blazer that narrowed to button closely around his waist but then flared out into a skirt—or possibly just really exuberant tails—over a light button down. His jeans were patterned with what looked like Romantic-era brushwork, though Aziraphale couldn’t identify any of the actual paintings. That was obviously why he kept staring at Crowley’s legs and leg… region.

But then he actually got into the car, and Crowley started driving.

“Were. You. Doing _that_. On. Purpose?!!!” he asked through clenched teeth when they finally arrived at the restaurant. Crowley just leaned lazily against the car, waiting for Aziraphale to catch his breath in quite a different way than he had fantasized about needing to. The absolute _demon_ tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows with a faux sense of puzzled inquiry, as if he didn’t know exactly what Aziraphale meant. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and looked around them. The walls around the parking lot were made of charmingly mismatched brick and rather tall. They’d had to drive for several minutes into the park grounds before they arrived. No one else was currently in the lot, and the sun had set some time past. About as private as you could get, given that they were outside. Crowley had given up the innocent act and was openly smirking at him now. He’d really thought they were going to kill that bicyclist.

Without giving himself any time to think himself out of it, Aziraphale spun, marched over to the car, took hold of Crowley’s hair at the nape, and pulled his head down into a firm kiss. Aziraphale had meant to make it chaste—just, just to show the infuriating man that he was not the only one who could mess people about—but then Crowley gasped and things abruptly weren’t so chaste anymore at all. Not that he minded. Crowley kissed him much like Aziraphale might descend on free cake left in the faculty lounge that he did not intend to share.

Aziraphale’s heart did a funny little dance, something high-spirited with a lot of bouncing, and he suppressed an embarrassing noise when Crowley’s long fingers tangled through his hair. But he wasn’t quite so far gone as to forget the terror his heart had also felt when he discovered that Crowley interpreted “yellow light” to mean “floor it.” Regardless of whether there were other cars between them and the intersection or not. Aziraphale stepped back sharply to put some distance between them, rather gratified to see that they were both breathing hard now. Crowley, in fact, seemed to be leaning against his car for support as much as for effect.

“I want to make it clear: that was not my forfeit,” Aziraphale said sternly.

“Ahhh-hah…no?” Crowley said, looking a bit dazed but also like he was smiling without consciously meaning to do so. It was a very good look on him. “Definitely felt like a kiss to me.”

“Oh, it was. It was a kiss expressing my profound shock and awe at my continued existence on this earth. I am given to understand that it’s a common reaction to near-death experiences.”

Crowley’s eyes gleamed. The enigmatic sunglasses were apparently an on-campus thing, and as much as Aziraphale had, once or twice, imagined dramatically pulling them off or tipping them up or plucking them away and putting them on himself, (or okay, maybe he’d imagined it more than once or twice) it was far preferable to see Crowley’s whole expression.

“So by that logic, the faster I—“

“Let’s go in, shall we?”

* * *

The restaurant was a wonder. There was just no other word for it. It sat inside a massive botanical garden, shielded from the elements by elegantly curving walls of glass panes, bordered and broken up by decorative black iron fretwork. The tables were arranged in a central atrium, where they could see through yet more glass into several interior greenhouses bursting with different kinds of foliage.

“Each separate enclosure replicates slightly different environmental conditions,” Crowley was telling him excitedly, “so they can have aaaaall the plants, basically. From all over the world.”

“I read once about some kind of Noah’s Ark for seeds,” Aziraphale said, trying to recall the details of the article, “saving historical and endangered plants for new generations?”

“The Svalbard Vault! They did an exhibition here once!” Crowley launched into a re-telling. Sitting there listening to Crowley tell him everything he was surprised to discover that he was indeed interested to learn about plants, Aziraphale felt…enchanted, perhaps. Warm in his soul, in a way that had nothing to do with temperature or even with the very tasty pumpkin soup and savory-spiced croutons. They relaxed into each other’s company, falling back into the rhythm of easy banter.

“Wait, what do you mean they grow vegetables for the restaurant in that greenhouse?”

“…does that really surprise you? Farm-to-table or whatever is so in it’s practically out again.”

“So the, the—the roasted squash here, it’s from,” he pointed to the greenhouse in question, which happened to be quite close to their table, and mouthed the words “right there?” Crowley nodded slowly, forehead wrinkled in some confusion as Aziraphale hastily put down his fork with the squash still on it. “My goodness. That’s—well. My goodness.”

“You are very much not even a vegetarian, much less a …flora-tarian, or a meat-etarian, or whatever, if that’s a thing. Pretty sure it’s not a thing, unless you’re on one of those diets.”

“But it’s--the other plants are all,” he gestured at the veritable new Eden all around them, softly illuminated by moonlight filtering down through the atrium, and lowered his voice to an emphatic whisper, “watching!”

Crowley looked at him. And then he started to laugh, really laugh, the kind of helpless, uncontrollable laughter that you can’t help but join in with even when (like Aziraphale now) you’re not really sure what you’re laughing at. “Oh, angel,” Crowley said. “Angel, oh my god, I can never take you back to mine.”

“What,” Aziraphale was giggling too. “Do you have some kind of secret sadistic plant torturing scheme you’re hiding from me there? String up the begonias if they don’t flower in season? Put ferns down the garbage disposal if their leaves get spots?” Crowley was pounding on the table with his fist now, laughing hard enough that it sounded more like wheezing. Some of the other patrons gave them looks, but Aziraphale was giddy with it, fizzing like the bubbles in their champagne.

When they both finally calmed down, Crowley had actual tears on his face that he wiped away carelessly with the side of his hand before flopping it down onto the table (an artful slice of petrified tree stump) between them. Aziraphale’s eyes were drawn to it like a magnet. He wanted to take Crowley’s hand. Very much. But. But, this evening was _fun_! He was relaxed and enjoying himself thoroughly. Not like a date-date at all, in Aziraphale’s (admittedly limited) experience. But Crowley had, very clearly, said “of a romantic nature” on the telephone. And he had definitely kissed him back, before, when—oh.

Crowley reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand, interlacing their fingers. His hand was cool to the touch, a few subtle silver and gunmetal rings emphasizing how finely formed his fingers were. It felt almost unbearably intimate. Looking at their hands entwined like that—exactly what he wanted—it all seemed. Well. It all seemed ludicrous. The sour taste of bile rise up Aziraphale’s throat. Crowley’s fingers were long, elegant, and perfectly tanned to a rich shade of brown. Aziraphale’s were stubby, fat, and experienced light most significantly through the medium of overhead fluorescents and computer monitors. He swallowed, looking at two of them. The contrast they made.

“You would _want_ to take me back? To your place?” he asked quietly. Crowley snorted.

“How committed are you to dessert?”

“That’s not funny,” Aziraphale said and jerked his hand back. It all came out perhaps sharper than he’d meant, but really. It wasn’t like Crowley to make a cruel joke.

“What?”

“You know what.”

“I really don’t, angel. What I was trying to say was ‘yes, Aziraphale, I very much would like to take you back to mine or for you to take me back to yours and for us to continue this evening while much more naked.’ That’s what I meant. And I’m dead serious about that.”

Aziraphale looked away, flushing with equal parts embarrassment and flaming want. He’d made it awkward, and now Crowley looked frustrated. Ducky. Naturally, this was the moment the waiter chose to bring by their desserts and ask inane questions about how they were enjoying the meal. On the up side, the evening felt more like his previous date-dates every second.

“I… thank you. Yes. I would, um, like that very much too,” Aziraphale said, determinedly staring at a floor tile somewhere off in the middle distance. “It’s just. I know what people think when they look at us. And I just. You know?” Crowley moved his hand, which had been still sitting on the table since Aziraphale abandoned it, to take up his fork and poke at his small cheese plate.

“That’s a wide field.”

“You pulled Lyle, for Christ’s sake. I don’t—can’t—I’m not—bother.” Was Aziraphale really going to need to spell this out? “A lot of otherwise very pleasant evenings have been ruined by men telling me, ‘Oh I don’t see you as fat, I see you as smart,’ or ‘You’re so cute it doesn’t matter that you’re fat,’ or pick some other vaguely positive non-physical descriptive word. Like they were _willing_ to be with me, despite. Despite, well. Despite me.”

“Aziraphale—“

“Let me finish, please, I—I don’t think I could say this again, and,” Aziraphale swallowed. They were trying to be more direct, right? “And I like you too much. For that. This has been such a nice evening, the best in such a very long time, and I so enjoy us talking.”

Crowley was silent. Aziraphale waited for a breath and went on.

“I notice when the only parts of me someone wants to touch are my hair, or my face, or when they look away when I. Well. When I undress. You know what Dominic said, at the end, the other night?”

Crowley’s expression, which Aziraphale could just see out of the corner of his eye, had been going soft but abruptly turned murderous.

“I do not.”

“He said he thought I’d be grateful. Grateful, like I’m some kind of, of, of an ugly three-legged dog with mange, desperate for whatever attention I could get. And,” Aziraphale took a deep breath, counted to four, centered himself, and looked up to lock eye contact, to make sure Crowley absolutely understood, “And I. Am. _Not_. I would rather us to be friends, than. Than that. You don’t _owe_ me. You don’t owe me anything. Not for the other night, not for. For anything.”

An unhappy little silence fell as they both picked at their desserts. Aziraphale at first thought he wouldn’t be able to stomach his candied walnut and honey sauce brûlée but, well. That had never been his reaction to stress, had it. And it was a damn good custard.

“Angel, I,” Crowley’s voice was tight and he paused to clear his throat. “I—I think we should talk about this in the car.”

“That’s fine.”

Aziraphale nodded grimly to himself. Crowley had been right. Better to be direct. It wasn’t everyone who could make him laugh like this, and possibly even vice-versa. If they left it here, they could still be friends. One kiss—even one very good kiss—was nothing that couldn’t be overlooked. Any further, and. Any further, and no. Aziraphale had never been very good at “let’s be friends” after dating someone for any length of time. Just hurt too much. He concentrated on savoring the brûlée, letting his other senses fall a little out of focus. The contrast between the smoky crunch of the crust and the sweet, tangy slide of the honey sauce was truly exquisite. The walnuts brought texture and body to balance out the custard’s silky smoothness.

The waiter came and collected their plates, and Crowley snatched up the check with viper-like speed as soon as it appeared on their table. Aziraphale smiled a little sourly. You don’t owe me anything, you brilliant man. They didn’t make eye contact until they were both seated in the car again, though Crowley had for some reason directed them into the back seat. Aziraphale, feeling some terror stirring at the thought of the upcoming drive, wondered if it would hurt Crowley’s feelings too terribly much if he were to take a Lyft home. When he bit his lip and turned to ask, however, he found himself looking directly into amber eyes a lot closer than he’d expected, pupils blown wide and dark. He didn’t know what Crowley saw in his face, but whatever it was, Crowley grimaced.

“Fuck.” (Aziraphale mouthed “Language!” but his heart wasn’t in it) “Uh, I’m sorry. I just wanted to, um, do this in a more private place. Aziraphale, I’m sorry. Mea culpa, okay? I really, really didn’t. Didn’t mean to leave you hanging. I’m sorry.”

“Hanging? I thought we agreed—oh!“ Aziraphale gasped as Crowley dove forwards and planted his mouth directly into Aziraphale’s lap while one of his arms snaked around and grabbed greedily at his rear. Crowley kissed at the inside of his thighs, over the striped light blue and grey herringbone trousers that Aziraphale and Lyle had finally compromised on, kissing once, twice, three times. His tongue circled around, making little warm, damp spots as he moved upwards from the knee. Aziraphale’s cock sprang to attention with a jolt that only stiffened further when Crowley hummed in apparent delight. He seemed to take this reaction as permission to continue his explorations, but Aziraphale was officially freaking out.

“Um, Crowley? Oh! Oh, my God, ah—need words. Words—WORDS. I need words, Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped out, his arms flailing before latching on to something solid he could brace against. Apparently one of those things had been the front seat headrest (good) and the other Crowley’s head (um, less good). Crowley had pulled back immediately when Aziraphale started spluttering, though, so the whiplash hopefully wasn’t too bad. When all body parts were more or less safely back in separate zones, minus Aziraphale’s arm now holding Crowley’s shoulder in a death grip (himself unclear if this was to keep Crowley at a safe distance or stop him from leaving the car) they made eye contact again. The car’s interior was dark, illuminated only by what moonlight could make it through the windows and the orange-y glare of parking safety lights, but Crowley almost looked embarrassed.

“Aaaah, and sorry again, angel. Aziraphale.”

“Crowley, what. What on earth was that?”

Scratch “almost,” he definitely looked embarrassed. It was not an emotion Aziraphale could have imagined seeing on him, in truth, before this moment.

“I thought it would… would be better to show you, than tell you. Because apparently I’m not great at telling you, or,” he snorted a laugh and for a beat looked much more like the Crowley that Aziraphale was used to, “more like, and I say this with love, you’re not great at hearing me tell you. I don’t just _like_ you, you, you big angel, you. I _want_ you. I’ve dreamed about you. I—oh fuck, Aziraphale, when you smile at me like that, every time, I really really want to kiss you, can I fucking kiss you? Please.”

“Language, dear,” Aziraphale’s brain had flicked to stunned autopilot, not helped by Crowley making an incoherent sound of needy exasperation. But everything that had been so hard, that he’d been helpless to bring about, that he kept convincing himself couldn’t be happening, was suddenly simple. “Yes. Yes. Please do.”

* * *

The only thing to be said about the drive back to Aziraphale’s apartment was that the taste of Crowley’s mouth paired exceedingly well with the Shiraz they’d shared at dinner.

They arrived at his building’s parking lot, but that had been the end of Crowley’s patience and Aziraphale was in no hurry himself to leave the car. They’d find some way to keep warm, he was sure. But then his knee whacked hard against some kind of lever. (the thruster? Or maybe the clutch? He had never seen the point in learning to drive) Crowley sucked in air through his teeth like _he_ was the one who’d have a massive purple bruise in the morning.

“Can I come up?” he asked.

“Yes, rather, let’s,” Aziraphale could not get out of the car fast enough and nearly swore aloud as his hand smacked against something else pointy on the door (Crowley actually did).

“Let’s upstairs, angel, please. It’s—it’s waaaay too early to pit my feelings for you versus for the Bentley, okay?”

Aziraphale might have been offended at any other time, but at that moment he was feeling too much love for absolutely everything in the universe, even that blasted lever, to do more than giggle as he led Crowley up the stairs.

“We’ll have to—mmhm, yes—have to see what I can do to tip the balance in my favor, shan’t I?”

“I can’t believe you just said the word ‘shan’t’ while groping my ass.”

Then they were kissing again, Aziraphale fumbling with his keys at the same time and miraculously managing to get the door open. They stumbled into his apartment, both attempting to wrestle each other’s winter coat off without stopping for breath. This would have been fine, more than fine, really, absolutely peachy keen, had Aziraphale only remembered where the spare IKEA bag serving as rejected date clothing basket had gotten to. He walked backwards, trying to keep enough distance to undo Crowley’s coat buttons while the wonderfully infuriating man kept trying to smash their bodies together. (he was significantly faster than Aziraphale at coat removal) The back of Aziraphale’s leg thudded against something soft but very, very heavy, and he tumbled backwards over it with a squeak of alarm. Crowley jumped forward to catch him, but his usual grace deserted him. One foot came down right in the middle of the bag’s very lumpy contents and the other caught in the handles, and then he was falling too. They landed helter-skelter on the (only semi-recently vacuumed) sitting room carpet, hands somehow still locked together and laughing till Aziraphale felt tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.

“You sure you actually live here, angel? We haven’t stumbled into someone else’s place? Them running out of the bedroom any minute, curlers in their hair, green face mask, everything, waving a frying pan about to fight off the dangerous burglars making out on the floor? Because that would put a cramp in the evening.”

“Oh no,” Aziraphale wheezed, as he tried to get his breathing back under control. “This is definitely my place.” He waved a hand at the stacks of blue exam books covered in chickenscratch and red ink on the floor beside them, supporting a pile of library books that Aziraphale would later discover had been due back already by several days. He could also, even upside down as he was, see the real laundry basket (another IKEA bag) full of sheets and pajamas covered in the unmentionable. But hopefully Crowley wouldn’t twig onto that one. The housework situation definitely needed taking in hand, now that the semester was over. But there were much, much more interesting things to get his hands on at the moment. Crowley sat up and took care of his remaining coat fastenings—ah, there were buttons inside somewhere!

“You know,” Aziraphale said, “I’ve dreamed about you, too.”

Crowley shed his jacket at speed and laid himself down on top of Aziraphale. He propped his head up on his elbows to look down with a sinfully salacious smirk.

“And what was I doing, mmm? In these dreams of yours?”

Aziraphale patted gently on Crowley’s left arm, which he obligingly bent so they could both roll. Aziraphale sat up in the process so they ended up in just the position from his dream: Crowley flat on his back with his legs wide looking up at Aziraphale, his knee pressing against a definite bulge in Crowley’s jeans. Aziraphale grinned, feeling daringly wicked, and Crowley groaned.

“Yesss. That’s—that’s good, angel. Very good. Good dream. On board.”

Aziraphale’s bowtie (Lyle had conceded it was part of his “signature style” and could stay) had gotten undone sometime in the proceedings and hung loosely from his neck, but his vest, shirt, and trousers were still snugly in place. Crowley’s blazer skirt thing was unbuttoned and had slipped down to his elbows, but it was trapped underneath Crowley and thus effectively immobilized his arms. Aziraphale admired the view and the slight friction of both their clothed erections rubbing against each other. But then Crowley made little grabby hands in his direction, and Aziraphale leant forward to kiss him again, soundly. Without Crowley’s interference, the shirt buttons yielded far more swiftly than the jacket. He hadn’t gotten very far at all, however, when he discovered that Crowley had on yet another layer beneath, an undershirt this time. Aziraphale stopped the kiss to pluck at it with clear disapproval, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

“I run cold, okay? And you, Mr. Coat-Scarf-Jacket-Waistcoat-Bowtie-Button-Down, do not get to complain about other people’s layers.”

“Hmph. I’m positively underdressed today. No pants. I’m told they ‘ruin the line.’”

Crowley looked confused for a second, likely filtering this through an internal British-ism translator. Then he wriggled an arm free and sat up quickly before slipping two chill, slender fingers under Aziraphale’s trouser waistband. Aziraphale thrilled at Crowley caressing the soft, bare swell of his waist. Crowley swallowed hard.

“Please tell me you have a bed somewhere in this place. Or a sofa. Or, okay, yeah, we’re still young, I can work with the ground.”

Aziraphale promptly scrambled backwards and got up, offering Crowley a hand. But the sight of his bed was. Well. Something about the pause or change of positions, it had, not sobered him up, obviously, but.

“I do, but, aah.” The thought occurred, that maybe he wasn’t quite ready to... He looked at Crowley, who’d taken the opportunity to slither fully out of the jacket and was now smiling softly at him, undoing his remaining shirt buttons. Good God, but this man was gorgeous. He was being stupid. And after what he’d said, about his dream, anyone would think. And it wasn’t AT ALL that he didn’t want to! Obviously. It was just... a lot to take in. But the last thing he wanted was to end up being a tease, of all the bloody idiotic, self-destructive... What would they say, “Carpe diem! (noctem?)” Right? Live life to the fullest? He was being really dumb.

“But?”

“Nevermind. This way.”

Aziraphale walked them towards the bedroom, thankful he’d at least changed the sheets even if everything else was still a mess. But before he could get more than a few steps, Crowley hooked his chin over Aziraphale’s shoulder and hugged him solidly from behind, pulling them both to a stop.

“But what?”

Aziraphale gritted his teeth. Okay. Direct. He was frustrated at himself, but even he could be direct if Crowley was asking. And he was. “Maybe,” he said, closing his eyes even though he couldn’t actually see Crowley, “maybe we hold off on that particular. For tonight.”

“Okay.”

“I’m just—obviously I want to. Really very much. It’s just a bit of a lot, very quickly, and an hour ago I half thought you were really more just trying to be kind, even though—“

“Angel. It’s okay. It’s very okay.” Crowley kissed the side of his neck, with just a hint of teeth. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t one-hundred percent want to do, okay? And trust me,” he laughed darkly, “I’m nowhere near that self-sacrificing.” Another kiss, firmer this time with a delicious hint of suction. “We’ve got time. We’ve got all the time we want.” More of a bite than a kiss. “I want to see you again. I think you want to see me again.” Crowley kissed the spot again, tenderly this time. Aziraphale had never thought of his neck as a particularly erogenous zone, none of his previous partners had paid it much mind, but he was obviously going to have to reconsider.

“Yes. Definitely.”

“There you have it,” Crowley said, breath warm against Aziraphale’s ear. Under Crowley’s lips, the tension melted from his neck, though it seemed more to coil up again in his gut than to dissipate. “Though you should probably tell me if you have strong feelings against hickeys, because I’m feeling extremely possessive right about now.”

“You go right ahead, my dear,” Aziraphale said, laughing a little so he wouldn’t cry. Crowley growled in a very pleased way and set about marking more spots on his neck as Aziraphale guided them back into the living room, towards his sofa. It was far and away the most comfortable furniture he owned, overstuffed and covered in a soft tartan-patterned corduroy. He’d bought it as his one wild extravagance after getting A Real Job. A wild extravagance unfortunately purchased before he’d been informed how long he’d have to wait before getting his first Real Job paycheck, but it had been worth it. Definitely worth it now, as Crowley sprawled invitingly across the couch. His head hung backwards over the armrest, smiling at Aziraphale from upside down with his dark hair tumbling everywhere and beckoning him to join.

After some negotiation of knees and various sensitive internal organs—which went a long way on its own to slowing the pace of things—Aziraphale finally settled on top of Crowley again, this time much more comfortably for them both. He skated his fingertips lightly over Crowley’s torso and marveled at its slim definition. For all his complaining earlier, Crowley applied himself diligently to Aziraphale’s jacket, vest, and dress shirt while Aziraphale explored. He shivered when Aziraphale found (and catalogued for future reference) particularly sensitive spots. It was perhaps inevitable that this eventually descended into a no-holds barred ticklefest. And more kissing. Possibly a smidge of grinding, enjoyable now that Aziraphale wasn’t anxious about where they were going with it.

“You know, I believe I promised to un-silence my phone after I got back,” Aziraphale said finally, lazily. Then he kissed Crowley’s neck, which indeed turned out to be extremely enjoyable.

“Counterpoint,” said Crowley eventually, “Let’s not.”

“What, and say I did?”

“Mmmmhmmm.”

“You’re a terrible influence.”

“Angel, you have no idea. But I’m looking forward to showing you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a truly lovely ride. Thank everyone for reading, for your kudos, and especially for your comments. Love.
> 
> I have vague thoughts about a possible sequel, but this has been so much fun that I took leave of my senses and signed up for the Good Omens Big Bang. Look out for me there or at my very disorganized tumblr: https://themisspool.tumblr.com/


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